


at me, too, someone is looking

by bacondoughnut



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Batfamily (DCU), Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Brotherly Bonding, Dick doesn't know Jason's alive, Family Issues, Hurt Jason Todd, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Major Character Injury, Nightmares, Protective Dick Grayson, Recovery, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:02:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 116,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22595980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bacondoughnut/pseuds/bacondoughnut
Summary: Dick Grayson knows he's got problems when the Red Hood's busted leg somehow becomes his concern.aka; How Dick Grayson finds out Jason Todd is alive. A story about healing.
Comments: 417
Kudos: 1248
Collections: Dick & Jason, everybody loves dick





	1. A Very Long Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Was I sleeping, while the others suffered? Am I sleeping now? Tomorrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of today?" _  
> Samuel Beckett__

He's laying on the ground with a mouth full of blood and dust, and there are hurried footsteps in the distance. He already knows they don't belong to anyone good, so he's glad it sounds like they're retreating.

Before it all went down he'd been almost certain he heard someone shout his name--his real name, not just Nightwing--but now he can't be sure. He's not even sure who pushed him out of the way. It was one quick blur of motion and at first he'd thought he was being attacked. Then the ceiling came down.

There's more shouting nearby that he can't quite make out. The thud of a few more chunks of building shaken loose. A chorus of car alarms. Thick dust in the air. It makes his eyes and throat feel too dry.

In short, there's chaos.

He figured there was going to be when he arrived on scene and found out the Red Hood was already there, but this wasn't quite what he was expecting.

Dick's just managed to push himself up onto his hands and knees when the ringing in his ears stops and he's able to pick out another sound among the rest of the cacophony. A groan of pain, a short distance behind him.

"Hood?" he asks, and he's on his feet in an instant. Well, it takes two attempts, the wind's been so knocked out of him, but he gets there nonetheless.

That flash of red as he'd been shoved clicks together in his brain, and he realizes it must have been the Red Hood who'd pushed him out of the way. Why the Red Hood would ever want to save him, Dick has no clue in hell. But the man got the top floor of a parking garage collapsed on him for his trouble.

Despite this, Dick's still cautious as he approaches, crouching down on the ground at his side to assess his condition. The man was unpredictable at the best of times, and Dick doubts recent events will have improved his mood. Better for both of them that Dick be cautious, and not get himself shot trying to help out.

Hood's right leg is pinned beneath a pile of concrete rubble, that much is obvious. On top of that, though, blood is beginning to pool on the ground at his side. And when he breathes Dick hears a slight rattle. But he is breathing, for now.

"What happened?"

Dick's shocked for a second, both by the question and the fact Hood's talking to him at all. He blinks and says, matter of fact, "The ceiling collapsed."

"Yeah, on me," Hood answers. It sounds like he's putting an awful lot of effort into not sounding like he's in pain, but he's largely failing. He grunts as he shifts his weight around, pushing himself up onto his hands as best as possible. "I got that part, birdbrain. I wanna know what happened to that shit-stain in the white suit."

"The arms dealer? He got away," Dick says, a little distracted as he tries to figure out exactly where that blood on the ground is coming from. It might be easier if this guy wore less black, but who's he to judge?

"Dammit!"

Hood slams a fist into the ground, then hisses out a sharp breath. Dick imagines he's gritting his teeth when he shifts his weight onto his left hand, clutching at his ribs with the right one.

"Whoa, take it easy," Dick says.

"Shut up," he snaps, shooting a look over at Dick. There's a thin crack splintering down the top of his helmet, and a thick venom in his voice when he says, "I'm gonna kill him."

Dick snorts. "You were gonna do that already, though, weren't you?"

"Well I'm gonna kill him even harder now."

Not that he agrees with the Red Hood's methods, far from it in fact, but Dick figures the anger is appropriate. Seeing as 'that shit-stain in the white suit' is the one responsible for dropping a building on them. Okay, he's being dramatic. It's probably only about two or three levels of the garage that are collapsed in. Still, he can save the stop killing people speech for later, given the circumstances.

Hood cranes his neck around to get a look at what's pinning his leg down and then, before Dick can advise against it, tries hauling himself forward. As if he can just yank his leg free from a concrete slab by sheer force of will.

The rubble shifts ever so slightly, but not in a good way. A lot of yelling follows, and only some of it is Dick telling the man to knock it the hell off. He puts a hand on Hood's shoulder in a vain attempt to still him and says, "Christ, will you sit still? Are you trying to pull your damn leg off, Hood?"

"Well that depends," Hood says, his arms collapsing beneath him. His head is buried in his arms when he asks, "Would that hurt more or less?"

"You're an idiot," is all Dick tells him.

"Stay positive," he quips, shooting finger guns at Dick.

Hood picks his head back up, shooting one more look behind him. Dick follows his gaze.

It's only his right leg that's trapped. Dick becomes more aware of this fact when the asshole decides it's a good idea to use his left leg to kick at the debris in an attempt to break free. A plan that's met with minimal results and more screaming, followed by a string of swearing, and then a second attempt.

Dick's left with the distinct impression that, should he get impatient enough, this guy may just be impatient enough to gnaw his own leg off. It's unlikely, but also not a terribly pleasant image in Dick's mind. Besides, all this straining can't be helping to stop whatever wound the man has that's still seeping blood onto the ground below them.

He tries to calm the man down and Hood, without so much as looking back at him, shows him his middle finger. He says, "Put your hand on my shoulder one more time, and I swear I'll bite it off."

"Yeah, yeah, you're very scary," Dick says, taking his hand away. "If you don't sit still you're gonna bleed out before we can even get your leg loose. Where are you hurt?"

There's a beat of silence, during which Dick has the impression the guy's heavily considering telling Dick mind his own business. He must realize he doesn't have great odds on his own, though, because he huffs out a heavy sigh and finally answers, "Left thigh. It's not deep."

Dick nods, moving to check it out.

Hood's right, it's not deep. But it's no papercut either, and the events of the last few minutes, reasonably, tend to make a person's heart pump a little faster. Between that and all the kicking Hood's been doing to try and get out, he's still going to lose a lot of blood.

Dick gets back up to his feet, surveying the area around them for something to stop the bleeding with. His eyes land on a banged up car a few yards away, where the owner left a sweater draped across the headrest of the driver's seat. He darts over as quick as he can, busting open the window with a small chunk of debris.

"That's theft, y'know," Hood remarks when Dick returns with the sweater. He makes a mock tsking sound and says, "What would Batman say?"

"He'd tell you to shut up already."

Dick crouches down next to Hood once more, tearing the sweater and wadding one of the pieces up. He puts it over the wound, and moves to use the other piece to tie around Hood's thigh to hold it in place.

"Y'know, I don't normally let people get this handsy until the second date."

Dick tightens the knot before leaning back, answering easily, "The funniest thing about that joke is the idea anybody would date you."

He thinks he hears a laugh from beneath Hood's helmet, and he hopes it's his excellent humor and not some sort of injury induced delirium. Whatever it is, the laugh abruptly jerks into another grunt of pain. Hood moves to push himself onto his hands again, but abandons the effort before he can. He sounds short of breath when he says, "If you're done playing nurse over there, bluebird, maybe wanna try getting me out?"

Dick's not a hundred percent sure he can, but he moves to investigate the stack of rubble pinning Hood in place.

There's one large chunk that Dick thinks, if he can lift it, would set Hood free. Only he has to hope he can move it without shaking the rest of the pile around it loose, otherwise all those pieces would just come tumbling down in place of it. He doesn't want to make things worse.

His thought process must be taking too long, because Hood kicks at the concrete with his free leg again and snaps, "Get it off me, asshole!"

"I'm working on it," he says, in what he hopes is an assuring tone.

"No, yeah, take your time," Hood replies, his voice a little too shaky for the sarcasm to properly land.

He gets his hands under the big piece and gives it a small nudge, testing to see what shifts if he moves it. A few small pebble sized pieces tumble down, but otherwise nothing shakes loose. Dick nods, more to himself than anything else, then glances back over his shoulder at Hood.

"I'm gonna count to three."

"Three?" Hood echoes weakly.

"Yeah, okay?"

"Why don't you count to five, birdbrain? Hell, give me ten. I'm just starting to have fun down here."

Dick refrains from rolling his eyes for the time being.

He takes a step back, making sure he's got firm footing. There's cracks in the ground below them too, and the last thing they need right now is for this level of the garage to crumble too. There are still about three floors beneath them, for now. Dick wants to keep it that way.

When the ground doesn't go tumbling away beneath him, Dick turns his attention to the concrete he has to lift. He takes a breath in preparation, getting a good grip on the slab. With a sympathetic wince, he puts all his strength into it and announces with a shout, "Three!"

He strains for as long as possible with the concrete in the air, and thankfully it's enough time for Hood to pull his leg free. Thankfully he pulls hard enough that him and his leg are far out of the way when Dick can't hold the rubble up anymore, and he drops it back to the ground. One of the fissures in the cement they're standing on spreads out a little further, but the ground beneath them holds.

Dick's back at Hood's side in an instant, assessing the damage.

By some stroke of luck, and it's nice to see they have a little, it doesn't look like a compound fracture. He doesn't see any bone sticking out. Still, there's blood seeping out from somewhere, and he doesn't want to think about how hard Hood must be clenching his jaw to keep from crying out again.

"You need a hospital."

"No."

Dick should've known it wasn't going to be that easy. He looks down at Hood and says, "It wasn't really a question."

Hood flips him off again. He gets his hands and his good leg underneath him and moves as if to stand up, but he doesn't get very far before he's face first on the ground again. It doesn't look like that's going to stop him from trying again.

Dick doubts telling him to stay down until the paramedics get there will do much, or any good. So instead he steps closer, getting Hood's right arm up around his shoulder and helping him up. He's polite enough, too, not to comment on just how heavily Hood has to lean on him to even stand.

"Hood, I'm taking you to the hospital," he says, firmly as if that will somehow get it through to this guy. Hood shakes his head, and Dick says, "Well where do you think you're gonna go?"

"I have a safehouse not far from here. I'll be fine, just take me there."

"You don't need a safehouse, you need a doctor."

"I'll live."

"Not without medical attention you won't," Dick says. But a hospital's a losing battle, he knows that. They ask too many questions for one thing, and for another, he really doubts any insurance agency in their right mind would cover this lunatic. He can only think of one other place for Hood to get the help he needs, though, and even he's skeptical when he suggests it. He says, "Fine. I'll take you to Batman, he's got someone who can help."

Dick's expecting a no, just not one as extreme as the one he gets.

Hood is so against the suggestion that he shoves himself away from Dick, losing his balance in the process and sticking his busted leg out to catch himself before he can think better of it.

It buckles underneath him, and Dick winces at the pained cry that accompanies the action.

"You stay away from me," Hood says when Dick moves to help, shooting a hand out and catching himself on the hood of a smashed up car before he can actually hit the ground. He sounds significantly more fierce than he looks when he snarls, "You're not taking me to _him._ No way."

"I'm not talking about turning you in, Hood."

He takes a step forward and Hood tenses, spinning around to face Dick. He's still leaning most of his weight on the car, but one hand reaches for the holster on his thigh. It's empty, his guns lost in the fight or the collapse. It doesn't matter. Dick puts his palms out in a gesture of surrender all the same, backing up once more.

He hopes he doesn't sound as patronizing as he thinks when he says, "I just want to get you the help you need."

Hood scoffs. "And what makes you think he'll even help me?"

Dick frowns.

It's true, Bruce won't exactly be thrilled to see Dick turn up on his doorstep with the Red Hood in tow, asking for help. Still, he's never known Bruce to deny anyone help when they really needed it. Even someone people deemed a villain. Which, considering the events of today, Dick's beginning to wonder if villain is entirely the right word to call this guy.

The best answer he can come up with is, "He'll help."

"No," Hood says. "You can leave me here. I'm not going to him."

There's an alarming conviction in his words, considering how quickly his energy seems to be fading.

In his condition, Dick can probably take Hood wherever he wants to. Bruce or the hospital. The Red Hood's tough, sure, but right now he looks like he's going to keel over any minute. Be it from exhaustion or pain, Dick gives it five minutes tops before the man passes out. He's got no chance if Dick decides to fight him right now, not without his guns.

The logical thing to do, then, is to overpower the guy and take him to the hospital. He'll get the treatment that he needs, and the cops can take it from there.

Naturally, Dick gives a small nod instead.

He says, "Okay."

"Okay?"

"No hospital, no Batman," he says, and some of the tension releases from Hood's stance. Dick's not so sure if that's a good thing or not. "Where can I take you, then? Friends? Family?"

"Safe house, I told you."

"You can't honestly expect me to just ditch you alone in some hideout," he says, taking his chances at stepping closer. When the man doesn't react, he asks again, "Where can I take you, Hood?"

Hood's quiet for a moment, slumping further back against the car. Dick briefly wonders if he's passed out already. A siren sounds in the distance, with any luck headed towards the parking garage.

Hood clears his throat and says, "I'll go with you."

"What? Go with me where?"

"I'll go with you. Just leave the bat out of it," he says, and then promptly collapses.

"Awesome."

It looks like he's carrying Hood to wherever the hell their next destination is.

He's foolishly optimistic that this'll be the easy part. But with the Red Hood deadweight on the ground in front of him, Dick steps back to survey the damage. Not to Hood, to the building.

Gotham City isn't exactly known for her pristine architecture, and the place was frankly a shithole before tonight's chaos. Dick's sure it's a miracle it didn't collapse any further yet. But the elevators are caved in on themselves, buried in concrete not unlike Hood's leg a minute ago, which means they're taking the stairs out. Great, Dick only has to carry two hundred something pounds of unconscious vigilante with him. No sweat.

Not one of the six men Dick followed here are anywhere in sight.

He knows the guy in white made it out, and he knows three of those goons are under the rubble. No way they made it out, they were dead before the ceiling came down. Wrapped around bullets, courtesy of the man Dick's now trying to help. That leaves two unaccounted for, and he can only hope they made it out alive, because there's no time to search for them.

"I'm so gonna regret this later," he says to himself, moving forward to sling Hood over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.

Only now does it really occur to him how much bigger than him this kid is.

And he's got no idea where he's taking Hood when he starts down the stairs, but it better be quick, because dude's heavy. Right now, all he's got is out and away from this parking garage as fast as he can.

It's just in time, it seems.

They're barely across the street when he hears the low rumble, and he feels the reverb in the ground before he's fully turned around to look.

Dick flinches as the floor they'd been standing on not five minutes ago caves into the level below it, collapsing into smoke and embers in the wake of a second explosion. The first one had seemed like an accident, but Dick's not so sure now. It's distinctly possible, he realizes, that this whole thing was a trap all along. The place was doomed to collapse from the beginning.

If it was a trap, Dick doesn't have a clue who set it.

He doesn't have a clue if it was meant for him or Red Hood.

In fact, the only thing Dick does know is that it's going to be a very long night.


	2. Bone Tired

He actually does end up taking Red Hood to that safehouse.

It's temporary, but that's the closest place around, and Dick wouldn't be able to carry Hood far on a good night. This is not a good night. He's slowly becoming confident he sprained his wrist in the collapse. A minimal injury, especially compared to the ones his new companion got, but it's beginning to make carrying an entire other person a somewhat more daunting task.

The 'safehouse,' as it turns out, isn't anything more than an abandoned old brownstone. It's rigged up with some extra security on doors and windows, but the inside really doesn't look like much.

Minimal furniture. A light that flickers when Dick switches it on.

Hood hits the couch Dick drops him onto without waking, and Dick's already scrambling away to find where he stores the first aid kit. No safehouse is complete without one, it must be around somewhere.

The first cupboard he checks in nothing but ammunition. An alarming amount of ammunition.

The second, canned foods, protein bars, and bottled waters.

He finally locates it at the back of the third cupboard, a wooden box filled with assorted medical supplies. It's buried behind an old duffle bag, and what looks like a dog-eared copy of some book. Dick doesn't care enough to find out what right now.

He darts back to the couch, setting the box down on top of the coffee table and kneeling down next to Hood.

The man's a little too still for comfort, and Dick moves to check for a pulse. It's not an easy task, with that stupid helmet on. He has to get the clasp loose, and then for a second his fingers just hover, briefly contemplating taking the damn thing off.

But for some reason he shakes his head, pushing the thought away and just hooking two fingers under to get a pulse. He'll leave the helmet until it's necessary to take it off. Probably, he just doesn't want to risk losing Hood's sudden trust in him before he even has a chance to figure out how he got it.

He finds a pulse. Okay, that's nice.

He checks inventory of the medical supplies available in the box, then turns his attention on the form on the couch. Assessing the situation. He needs to know which injuries take priority, unless he wants to risk Hood bleeding out while he stitches the wrong wound. And damn, he has to think fast, because Hood's losing more and more blood the longer he thinks about it.

It takes him one second to decide he can't reliably do this on his own. It takes a few seconds longer to figure out what to do about it, and then he digs his phone out of his pocket and puts in a call.

He puts it on speaker and sets the phone on the coffee table behind him, so his hands are free. It doesn't ring more than once before a familiar voice answers. Slightly confused, but not unwelcoming. "Hello?"

"Thaddeus," Dick says, from where he's hovering at the end of the couch. Wondering how the hell he's even supposed to get at whatever's bleeding on Hood's right leg.

He doesn't think Hood's even conscious, and if he is it's probably not enough that he'll remember any conversation going on around him tomorrow. Still, Dick figures it's best to keep actual names out of it.

Alfred's always caught on quick. He answers, "Yes, Nightwing. What can I do for you?"

"I need your help. A...friend's been injured, I can't take him to a hospital."

"You can't take him here either, I take it?"

"I need you to walk me through how to help him."

Alfred agrees, because of course he does. Dick will just have to make sure he doesn't mention any of this to Bruce later.

He asks Dick to tell him what the problem is, and Dick gives him a whole list. 

Hood's bleeding from three different places that Dick can tell. There's the cut on his left thigh, which the sweater seems to be doing a decent job of slowing for now. Then there's the right leg. He can't see the wound to know how deep it is, he just knows there's crimson steadily creeping from Hood's boot, down onto the couch and the floor.

Third is his arm somewhere. Dick can't see an entrance wound from anything, bullet or knife, in the arm of Hood's jacket. But blood trickles out from the sleeve, over his gloved palm and onto the floor.

And that's just the open wounds. There's also Hood's right leg, which is obviously broken, no question there. And, from the way he's shifted on the couch to favor one side, Dick's beginning to suspect a busted rib or two.

After he's rattled off all the details he has, he looks down at Hood and murmurs, too quiet for Alfred to hear over the phone, "You can't make this easy on me, can you, Hood?"

He doesn't get an answer. Not that he's expecting one.

As per Alfred's instruction, Dick goes to remove Hood's boots. He's able to get the left boot off no problem, tossing it over his shoulder haphazardly. When he begins to unbuckle the right boot, however, Hood starts to wake up a bit.

Enough to kick out with his left leg, catching Dick square in the throat and sending him stumbling backwards. He's just glad he took off the left boot first, or that kick could've hurt a lot worse. Or he will be glad, anyway, when he's not heaving himself back onto his feet, wondering yet again just why he's helping this person in the first place.

"I am not attacking you, asshole," Dick says, stepping back up to the couch.

He pins Hood's left ankle down to the arm of the couch before he can get another kick in, but that doesn't stop Hood from trying. He's almost frantic when he lifts his head up, asking, "What are you doing?"

"Merely trying to help you," Alfred answers. He's probably already figuring out that Dick was lying about this being a friend of his.

He wonders how much more Alfred will be able to figure out during the course of this phone call.

Hood's hands form loose fists. "Who else is here?"

"My phone," is all the explanation Dick gives him. He shoots a glance up to look Hood in the face, or helmet as the case may be. "Listen to me. I know it hurts, but we have to get that boot off."

"No. Just leave it on," Hood says, and it's as close to begging as Dick thinks he's capable of. "Just leave it--"

His protests are cut off abruptly by a sharp bark of pain as Dick pulls the boot off, and shit, there's more blood. Okay, the socks have to come off next. Dick glances down at the golden W's emblazoned up and down the fabric and, in part because he thinks a distraction might help, and in part because he can't just not comment, Dick says, "So...you like Wonder Woman, huh?"

With a breathless, pained laugh comes Hood's brilliant retort of, "Jackass."

"You said the leg was bleeding?" Alfred asks, directing the conversation back on track.

Dick nods, then remembers he's on the phone and says, "Yeah."

"I'm going to need a bit more information than just 'yeah,' Nightwing."

"Right," he says, snagging a pair of scissors from the box on the table. He has to get past the leg of Hood's pants before he can get much more information. Naturally, the scissors won't cut them. He looks over at the phone and says, "I can't get a good look at it. Hang on."

It's becoming more obvious that he can't do anything for the leg with Hood's armor in the way, and he can't simply cut it away like normal clothing, it just won't work. He also can't get rid of Hood's pants without first getting rid of that sweater tied around his upper thigh. The one currently preventing even more bleeding. That sweater.

"Okay," Dick tells Hood. "We're gonna have to take those pants off."

"Wanna buy me dinner first?"

Over the phone, he hears Alfred sigh. Dick's just glad to hear him joking again. A silent Red Hood is a lot more unnerving.

He shuffles back around to the side of the couch, kneeling back down there. As he does, he says, "I'll have to move the sweater that's slowing the bleeding. I need you to reapply pressure as fast as you can, got it?"

"Dr. Nightwing has an awful ring to it."

"Got it?" he repeats. He borrows an authoritative tone picked up from Bruce. He's never been quite as good at it, but if done properly it doesn't leave a lot of room for jokes or argument. And right now they both need Hood focusing.

He nods.

Dick mirrors the gesture, advises Alfred as to what he plans on doing, then gets to work. He hands a clean towel to Hood, and then unclasps the buckle on Hood's belt. Undoes the button and the zipper below. Only then does he move to untie the sweater. Rolls the pants down just enough to pass the wound in Hood's thigh. And Hood has the towel pressed against the cut as soon as Dick's out of the way. He's sure they're both glad for the black boxers he has on, although Dick's a little disappointed they're not also decorated with some nerdy pattern like the socks.

Back towards the phone, he says, "What do I do next?"

"Have your friend keep holding pressure there. Now tell me about the injury to his right leg."

Dick tries to be careful as he peels Hood's pants the rest of the way off, but Hood isn't exactly shy about letting him know it's not careful enough. One swear in a string of many cuts off into something like a sob when Dick jostles the loose bones in his leg wrong, and Hood tries to kick him again. It's an instinct reaction, Dick knows. Still, it's not helping.

"Easy, Hood," Dick says, hoping a more comforting approach might calm him down. "I got you."

Hood's sounds quickly go from pained to exasperated, and he snarls, "Save the pity party for someone who wants it, okay?"

It's less pity, Dick thinks with a slight twinge, than it is guilt. Hood's only in this pain because of Dick, after all. He's not about to get into that with Hood right now, though. He has a feeling his guilt will be no more welcome than his sympathy. So he settles for answering with a simple, "Okay."

Dick throws the pants onto the floor with everything else. Hood's leg is bleeding from the back, so they flip him on the couch. He has to look away when he gets a sight at Hood's leg. He's seen his fair share of injuries before, sure, but this is something else. This is going to be hell for the both of them, he just knows it.

Unsurprisingly, the leg is bent where it's not supposed to bend. It's limp in a way people aren't supposed to be. Swollen and inflamed. The skin mottled with bruising and popped blood vessels. But right now the focus is the gash running along the back of his shin, where the skin must've split just from blunt force. It's not as deep as it could be, all things considered, but it's deep. It's a wonder Hood's even awake right now.

Red spills out, all the faster now that Hood's pants aren't holding his leg together anymore.

Dick mostly manages to suppress a gag. "Shit. It's bad, Thaddeus."

"Can you be squeamish later, birdbrain?"

Hood's voice is somehow as feral as it is fading. It draws Dick back to attention quicker than Alfred telling him to focus does.

He's moving again in an instant, snagging another clean rag from the stack on the coffee table and pressing it to the wound while he offers Alfred a more detailed description. He ignores the way Hood gasps at the pain. There's nothing he can do about it right now, and he has the feeling Hood wants him to ignore it anyway.

Alfred tells him he's going to have to suture the split laceration, and gives him step-by-step instructions from there.

Many of the steps Dick already knows. In fact, he's well rehearsed in them. Cleanse the wound as best as possible. Keep pressure applied to slow the bleeding. Apply stitches. And he's taping bandages over the area in no time. Well it feels like it takes forever, but the clock on Dick's phone tells a different story, anyway.

He has to flip Hood back over to do the same for the cut on his thigh. Clean. Stitch. Bandage.

He tosses the bloodied rag onto the pile of waste accumulating on the floor at the head of the couch. Bandage wrappers and the remnants of that sweater and such. A pair of gloves is added too, as he switches them out for clean ones. 

Next Alfred directs him to find where Hood's arm is bleeding, and it's the same process from there.

Hood makes no move to help when Dick goes to remove the leather jacket, but he doesn't struggle either. Dick wonders whether or not he's passed out again. There's some pushback when he goes to remove the body armor, but all Dick has to do is catch his wrist once and Hood stills again. The chest-plate joins the rest of Hood's things on the floor.

He's got a black t-shirt on underneath, the left sleeve of which is clinging to his shoulder, damp with blood. Dick cuts the fabric out of the way with the scissors and finds that it's not a new wound.

From the looks of it, Hood popped a couple of stitches that were there before. If he has to guess, it's a knife wound. He doesn't think he really wants to ask how it got there.

"You've stopped all the bleeding, then?" Alfred prompts.

"Yeah," Dick says, perching on the edge of the coffee table. Just for a second. "What's next?"

"There's not a chance of you convincing him to go to a hospital?"

It's a last ditch attempt, and Dick can tell Alfred already knows the answer to that question. He answers anyway, "No."

Alfred doesn't sound surprised, just weary, when he says, "Well, then you're going to have to set the bone."

Fantastic. If Hood doesn't like him now, he's really going to hate him in a minute.

Alfred gives him instructions on what to do, and what not to do, to set the bone without royally messing anything else up. Dick's glad it's Alfred on the line and not some random doctor. The man has a way of explaining that makes everything seem so simple, even when it's really not. And Dick doesn't think Hood's leg can afford him all of a sudden getting nervous.

He walks back around to the arm of the couch, to Hood's right leg. Just as a warning, so the guy can brace himself, he says, "It's gonna hurt."

"I've had worse."

Hood's not posturing. Not trying to sound tough in front of Dick. It's too late for that and they both know it, there's no room for any illusions that the infamous Red Hood isn't in fucking agony right now. He says it because he means it. He says it like he's trying to make Dick feel better about what he has to do.

It doesn't make Dick feel better.

He doesn't bother telling Hood that he'll count to three this time. He just does it.

For a very long moment, the brownstone is filled with the sounds of Hood screaming as he convulses on the couch. Then it's cut off by an abrupt sob and he stills. Dick hazards a look up at him and finds he's clutching the couch cushions with one hand tight enough to tear the fabric, while the other is a tight fist pressed into the hardwood floor below them.

Before he can think better of it, he says, "You're gonna need a new couch."

"I'll add it to the to-do list."

"Next you're going to have to make a splint," Alfred says.

"Probably a new chair, too," Dick says, straightening up and eyeing the wooden chair off to the side.

Hood moves as if to sit up and look, but seems to think better of it before he gets too far. It sounds like it takes a significant effort, but he asks, "Why? What's wrong with the chair?"

Dick doesn't answer. Instead, he sets about breaking the legs off of the chair.

What Hood really needs, Alfred's not shy about reminding them both, is a cast. And a doctor. But Dick can't provide either of those things right now. A splint, on the other hand, he can do.

He uses a combination of Hood's belt and more rags to tie the legs of the chair in place, careful not to tie them too tight. Hood's more or less quiet the whole time, and it's frankly a little unsettling. Finally he steps back, content with the splint being properly secure.

When Hood speaks, he sounds cautiously hopeful and barely awake. He asks, "We done?"

"Ribs," Dick says. He almost forgot, and he almost feels guilty for pointing it out. The guy just looks so tired.

"'m not hungry," Hood says, as his head lolls off to the side.

Dick offers a blatantly fake laugh before stalking back over towards the phone. He says, "What can I do about his ribs? Obviously I don't have a way to be sure, but I think at least one's broken."

Before Alfred can reply, Hood lifts his head back up again to look at Dick and say, "They're not broken."

"How would you know, exactly?"

"Broke 'em before, felt different," he answers, as if it's the simplest thing in the world. "Prob'ly just a crack."

"Oh, it's just a crack. Well you're fine then."

"'s what 'm saying," Hood says, willfully ignoring Dick's sarcasm as his head drops back down.

If Dick hadn't just spent so much effort saving this kid's ass, he thinks, then he might just strangle him then and there.

"There's not much you can do for the ribs, I'm afraid," Alfred tells him, before Dick can bicker any further with Hood on the subject. "Make sure he continues to breath normally. An ice pack should help. Oh, and avoid having any more parking structures dropped on top of him. That should do the trick."

Dick hasn't mentioned how Hood got hurt to Alfred yet, but he's not exactly surprised the man figured it out. No doubt, the explosion is already being covered on the late night news. And besides, Alfred figures everything out eventually.

He sheds the last pair of gloves and tosses them onto the pile before sitting back down on the coffee table and resting his head in his hands. Wincing slightly when he remembers the injury to his own wrist. The adrenaline of everything happening tonight is wearing off, and he's becoming more and more aware of it. He probably has a spare brace or something buried somewhere in his apartment. He can worry about it later.

"Alright, thanks Thaddeus," Dick says. Then, "Before you go, what are the odds of me convincing you not to mention any of this to Batman?"

"The Red Hood wouldn't like that very much, I take it?"

Yep, Alfred figures everything out, eventually.

Dick sighs. He figures if he really didn't want Alfred figuring it out, he shouldn't have referred to the guy on the couch as Hood quite so much. Anyway, it doesn't matter if Alfred knows, so long as Bruce doesn't.

He doesn't confirm or deny Alfred's suspicions. Instead he just says, "I'll explain everything later, I promise. To both of you. But right now I can't have him involved in this. Please."

"I'll be waiting on that explanation," Alfred says.

He reminds Dick to keep a close eye on Hood to make sure he doesn't go into shock, and to pay close attention to his breathing. After a few more quick tips he says goodnight. Dick thanks him at least three times before he hangs up, and then the room falls into quiet.

He takes in a deep breath and gets back to his feet. He's bone tired, but he can't rest. Not yet.

They can't stay here. He's hesitant to move Hood right now, but the safehouse couch is a poor excuse for a bed. It's coated in blood, for one thing. For another, the lights in this place are barely staying on. Dick doubts the heating works, and it's a cold night already. He doubts the freezer works either, and Hood's being a bitch about his rib not actually being a problem, but he'll be wanting to put some ice on it. 

With a frown, he stoops down to pick Hood's leather jacket up off the ground.

Other than the inside of that one sleeve, it's not bloody. Dick shakes if off and then pats it a few times, until most of the dust and dirt clinging to the outside is clinging to the floors instead. He crosses back over to the couch, gently draping the jacket over Hood's sleeping form. For such a large man, he looks very small. So dynamic and now so still.

And Dick knows that Hood doesn't want his pity, but he can't help it.


	3. An Impatient Patient

Unfortunately, what's so far proving to be one of the longest nights of Dick's life doesn't end with Hood passing out on the couch in a brownstone.

He's far from comfortable leaving Hood alone there, but for a few short minutes he has to. He's got to transport Hood somewhere both cleaner and safer than this place, and Dick can't exactly haul the guy across Gotham by hand. It's not like he can just call a cab, either. No, he's got two choices. Go and get his car, or steal one.

Dick's not terribly proud of the choice he makes, but his car's all the way on the other side of Gotham. Getting there would take forever, and then he'd have to drive back to pick up Hood, then drive back again to his apartment. He just doesn't know if they have that kind of time.

He's not gone more than five minutes. He leaves a note in place of the car he borrows, for all the good it does, saying he'll bring it back.

Hood's still out cold on the couch when he makes it back.

Getting him outside and into the car is a lot harder than getting the car was, but Dick manages it. When Hood's sprawled across the backseat Dick makes sure to elevate his leg, per Alfred's instruction. He bundles the man's leather jacket under his leg and ties the sleeves off to the roof handle. It's a little sloppy, but Hood's not going to be in the car for too long anyway.

Dick climbs into the front seat and starts the engine.

They're about fifteen to twenty minutes into the drive when Hood stirs a little in the backseat. There's a soft mumble that sounds like he's trying to say something, but something's stopping him. On the second try he gets it, asking, "Where you takin' me?"

In the rearview mirror, he catches sight of Hood moving to push himself up onto his elbows, as if to look out the window. He gets about halfway there before giving up. Dick can't tell if it's from the pain in his leg, or just because he doesn't see anything to give away an answer out the car window. City buildings tend to blur together, especially in the night.

"My place," Dick says. "Unless you have a friend I can call? Someone who can take care of you 'till you're back on your feet?"

Hood doesn't really seem like the type who makes friends, but it's worth a shot anyway. Dick won't leave him on his own, but he's not particularly thrilled to be the one responsible for this guy either.

"I take care of myself," Hood says.

Normally it might sound tough, in that gritty action movie sort of way. Paired with the sheer exhaustion in Hood's voice, it just sounds sort of...sad.

They drive another block in silence before Hood says, "You didn't take my helmet off."

It's worded like a statement, but Dick reads a question there. He shoots a quick glance over his shoulder at Hood before looking back to the road and saying, "No, I figured you wear it for a reason. Why? You're not having trouble breathing, are you?"

He readies himself to pull over, but he doesn't have to. Hood's quiet for a second, but he answers, "'m fine."

Dick winces in sympathy when he notices a pothole too late to avoid it and the car bounces, but it sounds like Hood's too out of it to do much more than whimper. Dick thinks he preferred it when the guy was yelling at him.

The drive across town feels longer than ever, but eventually they make it. The sun will be coming up soon, but lucky for them it's still night enough for everyone to be asleep. He's not sure how he'd explain to his neighbors what Nightwing was doing visiting his apartment, let alone with a bloody Red Hood in tow.

Dick hauls him out of the car. It's more difficult of a task than it has any right to be. Hood seems content to stay right there in the backseat of the borrowed car, and Dick's not sure if there's a way to carry him without agitating _something_. Ribs. Shoulder. Leg.

But he gets him out of the car, catching Hood under the arms when he sags to the ground almost immediately. Dick almost loses his own balance at the weight he has to catch, and Hood grunts, struggling to stand on only one leg, despite Dick's insistence that he has him. He tries again, "I got you, Hood."

"Shut up already," Hood tells him, but it lacks the usual conviction. It's weary where it should be angry, and it sounds wrong.

Dick pulls one of Hood's arms across his shoulders, and he more or less drags him inside. It would be easier on both of them, Dick thinks, if he could just carry the kid, but Hood refuses. Instead they carry on like this, with Hood clinging tighter and tighter to him with every step they take. Carrying less and less of his own weight.

They make it as far as the elevator before Hood's good leg gives out on him, and Dick barely stops him from just crumpling to the floor then and there.

Frankly, the rest of the way to Dick's apartment is easier without Hood trying to help. Still, Dick's drained by the time he's got Hood in bed. He fetches some extra pillows hidden away in a cupboard somewhere, and Hood holds his breath when Dick lifts his leg in order to prop it up on them.

* * *

He only sleeps that night in one or two hour intervals. There's an alarm on his phone to wake him up, so he can go and check on the impatient patient now staying with him. Dick figures that hassle is a lot better to deal with than ditching the dead body will be, if any of Hood's injuries were to complicate while Dick's sleeping.

According to Alfred, the leg has to be elevated for at least a day. If not two. And even unconscious, Hood loves to make things difficult.

He's a fitful sleeper. Dick doesn't know if that's a regular thing, or a result of his current condition. Either way, it's annoying. He's throwing the blanket Dick gave him off his shoulders one minute, and then searching for it the next. Dick thinks about either turning the heater up or down so Hood can make up his damn mind if he's cold or not, but he doubts either option will do much good.

Once Dick tries to help by pulling the blanket up for him when it seems too far out of reach, and Hood flinches away from him, as if dodging a blow.

"It's me," Dick says, and fixes the blanket.

He goes to get his next hour of sleep, he'll need it if he's going to be dealing with this asshole for the next...ah, hell, he doesn't even know how long.

When Dick comes back for the next check in, Hood's just thrown the blanket away again. He makes a sound when Dick walks over, as if trying to form words, but he doesn't say anything.

He turns as if to roll onto his side, but he doesn't get very far, and then he's shivering again. Reaching a hand out for the same blanket he just threw away. Dick pulls it back up over him, and it stops the shivering, but it does nothing for the overall restlessness of his sleep. He groans pathetically, tossing his head to one side only to turn it back to the other.

"You're okay," Dick says, although he doubts Hood can hear him. "I'm here. I got you, you're okay."

It seems his assurances have a much better affect on an unconscious Hood than they ever did on a conscious one. He stills a little. Exhales softly, and with the breath most of the tension seems to release from his shoulders.

* * *

Dick wakes up on the couch the next morning. Well, morning is being awfully generous, if the clock in the kitchen has anything to say about it.

Point of fact, it's closer to three o'clock in the afternoon.

He wears his pajamas, a brace he doesn't even remember putting over his wrist, and a full body ache. All of which testify to the fact that the events of last night weren't just some horrible, strangely vivid dream. Dammit.

Dick groans and rolls over, burying his face back in the throw pillows.

All he really wants to do is go back to sleep. Instead he gathers all the energy he can and pushes himself to sit up, swinging his legs over the couch. The wood floor is cold against his bare feet.

Dick stifles a yawn. Stretches his arms. He's not sure if he's trying to wake up more, or stalling going back to his bedroom, where there's a murderous lunatic asleep in his bed. One that he's somehow become responsible for. God, he wants to go back to sleep.

He gets up and makes his way down the hall.

It takes his eyes a second to adjust when he pokes his head into the dark of the bedroom. The blackout curtains do their job well enough, and the only light making it's way into the room comes from the hallway. Dick can just make out the figure of the aforementioned murderous lunatic. A man who's currently laying face first on the floor, working his way somewhat unsuccessfully through the process of getting back up.

The blanket is snaked around his good leg, and he's got himself pushed up onto one hand, while the other hugs his ribs.

If Dick has to guess, and he probably does because he doubts he'll get an explanation if he asks, Hood's first instinct upon waking up was to try and leave. Unfortunately his leg still has other ideas.

Dick can't help but roll his eyes, even as he steps forward to help the guy up. He gets his hands under Hood's armpits and moves to lift him, and in return for Dick trying to help, the bastard actually headbutts him.

He drops Hood with a grunt, one hand flying up to his nose and coming away bloody. Dick swears under his breath and says, more than a little impatiently, "It's still me."

"I know," Hood says.

Dick breathes out an exasperated sigh. His lack of sleep, he's sure, isn't exactly doing wonders for his patience. But then, neither is dealing with Hood. It's almost impressive, how he still manages to be so infuriating when every exhale is coming out as desperate and ragged.

He snags a hand on the mattress and uses that to haul himself up, throwing himself unceremoniously over to sit on the bed. He leans back against the headboard, swinging his right leg up with a small wince and letting the left one dangle over the side. After taking a second to catch his breath, he shoots a look over at Dick and asks, or rather demands, "Where am I?"

"My apartment," Dick says.

Hood nods, like that makes sense, and slouches a little lower. It looks nonchalant, but Dick has a feeling he's only doing it because sitting up just takes too much effort right now. Sure, Hood slept longer than Dick last night, but he's doubtful either of them feel even close to rested.

He's quiet for a second. Contemplating. What, Dick has no clue. But then he clears his throat and asks, "What did Batman tell you about me?"

Not for lack of asking, but Dick's heard basically nothing about the Red Hood from Bruce. In fact, everything he does know about what went down between those two after Bruce benched him he had to learn from the news. Just like every other person in Gotham. Anytime Dick tries to bring it up, Bruce offers cryptic one word answers at best. Usually he just changes the subject. He's not even subtle about it.

And Dick's not sure why Hood's asking, so he answers him honestly. "Nothing."

Again Hood nods. Slower this time. With a derisive snort, he says, "Nice. Typical."

He waits for Hood to elaborate, but he doesn't.

"Why do you ask?"

"Forget it," Hood says, and it's not a request.

Dick knows Bruce won't answer his questions, so he more than doubts that Hood is going to. Especially with this attitude. Still, he figures it can't hurt to ask. A beat of silence passes and he asks, "What happened?"

"What happened?" Hood repeats, like Dick's insulting him just by asking.

"Y'know," he says, a little uncertainly. "Between you and him."

"None of your fucking business, that's what, birdbrain."

Okay, apparently it can hurt to ask.

He gives Hood an opportunity to say something else, anything else. Of course he doesn't. He just sits there brooding, he's almost as bad as Bruce about that and Dick doesn't think he'll ever know what went down between those two. He hums and says, "Okay. I'm making breakfast."

He doesn't give Hood time to shut him down like he suspects he will. Just turns and leaves.

In the kitchen, it feels a little easier to breathe. He doesn't know if it's the light that's able to creep in through the windows, or the fact that it's a room in his home not currently being invaded by a hostile stranger. Not that it's technically even Hood's fault. Dick is the one that brought him here, after all. He chooses not to think about it and puts on a pot of coffee.

He swings the fridge door open and stares inside. A carton of eggs stares back, but he doesn't feel much like cooking.

It occurs to him he's going to have to go grocery shopping, if he's going to be having a semi permanent house guest. He probably has to go to the store anyway. Most of his clothes probably won't fit Hood, and he's not about to have Hood just wear a bloody t-shirt the whole time he's stuck here. He'll probably need some spare bandages, too.

Until then, he makes himself a bowl of cereal and checks his other options for Hood. First thing's first, he pours out a glass of orange juice. Not that the Red Hood particularly seems like an orange juice type of dude, but Dick figures they make you drink it at all the blood drives for a reason. Hood didn't really voluntarily give blood, but the point stands.

He pops a couple slices of bread into the toaster and then relents and decides to scramble a few eggs.

By the time he's heading back towards the bedroom, he's had a cup of coffee and more time to wake up, and he's in at least a little better of a mood. Hood's mood, on the other hand, is far from improved. Dick's beginning to wonder if it ever does.

"What am I doing here?"

"Complaining, mostly," Dick answers, moving to set Hood's breakfast down on the nightstand.

Somewhat impatiently, Hood clarifies, "Why are you helping me?"

The question throws him off a little. He asks, "What do you mean?"

Because sure, it's not like Hood makes his list of favorite people at the moment. But it's also not like Dick was just going to leave him behind in a collapsing building to fend for himself. He doesn't see why this is something Hood questions.

"How much simpler can I ask? Why are you helping me? What's in it for you?"

"So far? A headache."

"That's funny," Hood says flatly, definitely not in the tone of someone who thinks it's funny. "Answer the damn question, asshole."

Really, Hood isn't in much of a position to be giving him orders. And besides, Dick could just as easily turn that same question back on him. Well, a variation of the same question anyway, because he still doesn't know why Hood saved him last night. A little less than a year ago, Hood was trying to kill him. But fine. He'll answer the damn question.

Only he doesn't have an answer.

He could say that it's because he feels guilty or responsible for what happened.

If Dick were paying more attention he would've seen the collapse coming. He should've seen it coming. But he was sloppy and he didn't and Hood got hurt because of it. Guilty or responsible don't even begin to cover how Dick feels about it. But there's also more to it than that. And besides, Hood's made it perfectly clear that he doesn't want Dick's sympathy.

He could say that it's because it's the human to do. Because what kind of an asshole would he have to be to leave the guy behind? But if that were his only reasoning, Hood would be handcuffed to a hospital bed right now. Not mouthing off in Dick's apartment.

Lacking the words for a better explanation, Dick shrugs and says, "It's the least I can do."

"Don't give me that. I hate that bullshit phrase," Hood scoffs. "The _least_ you can do is nothing."

"Fine. It's the second least I can do."

"That's not good enough."

"Hey, let's not forget you asked for my help," Dick says, getting fed up with the interrogation. He's not used to having his motives questioned when doing people favors. "I wasn't gonna leave you there, you were hurt."

"Yeah, and what the hell d'you care? What the hell have I done for you that it matters if I'm fucking hurt?"

It almost seems like the guy who goes around the city shooting people for kicks doesn't trust _him._ Dick wonders at the irony of it.

But he can sense that Hood won't feel at ease until he has some way to explain Dick's willingness to help him. And apparently people helping him simply out of the good of their heart just isn't an option to him, possibly doesn't even occur to him. The idea that someone might want to help just because he needs help is outrageous.

Dick tries not to dwell on that too long. He comes up with a reason to give him.

"The arms dealer. He's new in town," Dick says. "What do you know about him?"

He's only asking to appease Hood, but not that they're on the subject, it occurs to him it's a good question to be asking. He doesn't doubt that Hood knows more about the guy's operation than him, and Dick can use whatever it is he knows to track him down.

"He's not your problem," Hood says dismissively. "Or he won't be after I get to him, anyway."

"You're not gonna kill him."

"Like hell I'm not."

Hood says it almost like a challenge, and Dick knew this was going to come up sooner or later. Frankly, he's not in the mood to have a whole ethics debate with this asshole. Instead he says, "You can barely stand. You're not killing anybody anytime soon."

And boy, is that the wrong answer.

Hood doesn't have to lean very far to grab hold of one of Dick's wrists, and then he pulls. Dick wasn't expecting something like that and it manages to yank him off balance. When he falls Hood shoves the shoulder opposite the wrist he's holding, and before Dick knows it he's stuck in a chokehold, his back pressed against Hood's chest.

For someone who probably almost died last night, he's sure got a tight grip. Dick's fingers pry uselessly at Hood's forearm.

Only when the burning sensation kicks up in his lungs does it fully register in Dick's mind how reckless of a move it was engaging with Hood at all. Let alone bringing him into his apartment and then letting his guard down as much as he did.

He's known the whole time Hood's dangerous, sure. But it's a little easier to forget just to what degree of dangerous when the man's bleeding out on a couch in the dead of night, or declaring you the only person he'll trust to help him. This is a man who was a step ahead of him and Bruce the whole time they were pursuing him. A man who doesn't hesitate to pull the trigger.

Realistically, Dick doubts Hood wants to kill him. It doesn't make sense to save him from a collapsing ceiling only to try to kill him the next day.

More likely, Hood's just trying to prove a point, and he'll let go before he actually does anything to hurt him. It's a little harder to focus on logic, though, when it seems like the known killer he let into his home is trying to crush his windpipe.

"This stupid leg might slow me down," Hood hisses into Dick's ear. "But don't think for one second that I'm not just as capable of--"

Whatever threat he's about to make is cut off as Dick slams the flat of his hand back into Hood's side, just below his ribs. It's not hard enough to do any damage, but he's sure it'll give Hood a somewhat rude reminder of the damage that's already there. And it works like a charm.

The man pulls in a sharp, wretched gasp and throws Dick away from him. Dick hits the floor with a thud, and Hood rolls to the side a little, one hand reaching over to cradle his ribs. He sounds almost as breathless as Dick feels when he pants, "Asshole."

"Same to you," Dick says, but nothing's changed. He gets back to his feet and says, "Your breakfast's getting cold."

Then he turns to leave again. In part because Hood can't eat with that stupid helmet on, and he's not taking it off with Dick in the room. More so because he has other things to do today than dealing with Hood's crap.

He makes it to the doorway before stopping to turn around.

Hood's leaning his head back against the headboard, taking in slow breaths, his hand still draped across his abdomen. He looks miserable. It goes away when he catches Dick watching him, shifting to sit up a little straighter. He gives an irritated sigh and says, "Something else you wanna say to me?"

Dick shakes his head. "I'll be back. Are you okay on your own for a bit?"

He's not sure he can trust Hood here on his own. Not that he thinks the man will steal from him, or even go through his things to find out his identity or whatever. No, his main concern is that Hood might try and leave, and if he does he's only going to make things worse. He'll tear his stitches at best, and do something to make the bone in his leg shift at worst. Dick doesn't want to deal with any of it when he gets back, he's tired enough already.

"I'm fine."

Dick shrugs and heads back out of the room, gently closing the door behind him.

He left some pain meds on the nightstand next to Hood's breakfast. With any luck the man will take them, and he'll probably sleep the whole time Dick's gone. He can't make things worse for himself if he's asleep, right?


	4. Chicken Soup for the Soul

It's already dark again by the time Dick makes it back to the apartment. He carries a few bags of groceries and some other assorted crap, and the first thing he does once he's inside is pick his domino up off the coffee table and put it back on. Having a house guest who doesn't know his identity is already getting old. He ditches the bags on the kitchen counter and goes to check on Hood.

At least it looks like Dick's luck is beginning to turn a little.

Hood's asleep in bed. The blanket's been thrown on the floor again, but Hood seems to be sleeping a lot less fitfully than last night nonetheless. On top of that, it looks like he ate most of his food.

He collects the dishes off the nightstand and heads back into the kitchen without waking Hood. Tosses the plate in the sink to wash later, and goes to put away the stuff he picked up from the store.

Dick gives it about another hour before going to check in on Hood again.

Hood's awake this time. Propped up against the headboard, flipping through the pages of some book Dick's been leaving on his nightstand. He bought it in a checkout line because the cover looked interesting, and he's been meaning to read it for about a month, he just hasn't quite gotten around to it.

Frankly, he's shocked Hood's reading it. It's probably difficult to make out the pages in the dark of the room, and it looks like the man has a slight tremor going on in his left hand, betraying the pain he's doing so well at hiding right now. Dick thinks he can guess the cause, when he notices the meds he left for Hood before heading out earlier remain completely untouched.

To a degree, he gets it. The desire to stay as alert as possible when already injured, and essentially trapped in unfamiliar territory--possibly enemy territory, depending on Hood's mindset. Especially considering Hood's earlier paranoia, it makes sense. Still, if Dick were to imagine their positions swapped, he doesn't know that his willpower would be that strong.

To just sit there in whatever misery when there's something to dull it right there on the nightstand.

It's stupid, is what it is.

"How're you feeling?" Dick asks from the doorway.

"How do you think I'm feeling, birdbrain?"

"Okay, sorry I asked." Dick flicks the lights on as he steps further into the room, and Hood sets the book back down on the nightstand. "I gotta change your bandages."

It wasn't a question, but Hood shakes his head anyway. He says, "Just gimme the stuff, I can do it myself."

And Dick wasn't really going to say anything, but he nods towards Hood and says simply, "Your hands are shaking."

Hood shoots a glance down at his hands, clenching them into fists, then looks back up at Dick. In a huff he says, "I can do it. I'm fine."

"Your leg was just crushed under, like, a metric ton of concrete," Dick says bluntly. He moves to sit down on the edge of the bed, puts on a pair of gloves and moves to take a look at the bandage that's currently taped to Hood's right leg. Hood shifts, as if to move away, but doesn't quite follow through. Dick shoots a look across at him and says gently, "You know it's okay to need a little help every now and then, right?"

Hood scoffs at him, but otherwise just sits there in stony silence.

Only when Dick opens his mouth to say something else does Hood snap, "Stow the Power of Friendship speech and just get on with it already."

Dick's not sure what it was he was going to say anyway, so he shifts his focus back to the task at hand. He says, "Alright. I'm gonna need to get at the back of your leg. Can you roll over for me?"

"Somehow I think I'll manage," Hood says, his voice patronizing and cold.

Dicks takes in a deep breath before letting it out slowly. He knows anyone in Hood's situation would be reasonable irritable, but it's Hood and irritable doesn't cover, and it's a little difficult to keep the attitude from getting on his nerves. When they're fighting in the streets of Gotham or something it's one thing, but right now all Dick's trying to do is help.

It's harder to be mad when he's actually focused on the wound. Dick reaches a cautious hand out to peel back at the tape of the bandage, and pretends not to notice the way Hood's breath hitches.

The skin beneath the bandage is sort of marbled purple and blue. A line of stitches runs from about an inch below the back of his knee nearly all the way down, but they seem to be holding well. Dick doesn't see any obvious signs of infection, and he's hoping to keep it that way. He dabs it gently with a swab soaked in saline.

Hood hisses at the contact and his leg twitches, an instinct reaction beyond his control, but one that probably only makes things worse all the same. Dick keeps from commenting and changes gloves to apply a clean bandage, just the way Alfred taught him.

Once he's confident the bandage is taped securely, he tells Hood to turn back over so they can repeat the process on the other two wounds. In an effort to be reassuring, Dick tells him, "The other two shouldn't hurt as much, at least."

"Gee, thanks."

Eventually he'll learn to stop trying to be reassuring with this guy.

He gives Hood a look before peeling back the bandage over his thigh. It's just quiet for a second, and then Hood says, almost conversationally, "Your intel's off by the way."

Dick pauses, thrown off for a second. "About what?"

"The guy from the garage," Hood says, like he's annoyed he has to clarify. 

It almost sounds like Hood's voluntarily sharing information with him, though. Dick hasn't known him long, but he gets the feeling it's a rare occurrence. The short temper aside, Dick figures it's as close to a thank you for all his help that he's going to be getting. And since his knowledge on anything surrounding what actually happened in that garage last night is still somewhat lacking, he's not about to turn it down.

Dick raises an eyebrow. "Off how?"

"You keep calling him an arms dealer."

"Because he is one."

That much, Dick's sure of. It's how he found the whole operation in the first place.

"Nah, he's just a dealer, he doesn't really care what," Hood says. "Guns. Drugs. _People_. Basically anything to make a quick buck, and he doesn't give a shit who he hurts to do it."

As justified as it might be given the subject, the level of hatred that coats Hood's voice is a little unsettling. Dick finishes taping off the fresh bandage to his thigh and moves to do the same for his shoulder. As he does, he asks, "He know you were after him?"

Hood offers a one shouldered shrug. He says, "I've been killing my way up the ladder for about a month, he's an idiot if he didn't."

Dick doesn't think he wants to know how many people there were on that ladder. He's a little shocked the guy's even been in Gotham for that long, Dick only knew about him for about three days before tracking him to that parking garage. It explains why Hood seems to know so much more about the operation, anyway.

He goes to apply the saline to Hood's shoulder, and Hood's arm tenses. Dick asks, "Did you know it was a trap?"

"Not soon enough," Hood says, a different sort of bitter. He snaps around to look at Dick and adds, "I still could've taken him out if you didn't have to get in the way."

"Good thing I showed up, then," he replies.

Not just because he was able to stop Hood from killing that guy, either. The Red Hood's nothing if not stubborn. Dick can definitely imagine the scenario going differently, in which sure Hood could've taken the man out, but the building also still would've come down. The busted leg isn't ideal, but it's not the worst case scenario either.

Hood shoves Dick's hands away before he can finish taping the fresh gauze over his shoulder. "You honestly think that scumbag deserves your protection?"

Dick's beginning to realize it was foolish to think he could really avoid having this conversation. He goes to run a hand through his hair, then remembers the medical gloves and stops, saying, "Look, I'm not saying he's a good person, but--"

"He's a piece of shit!" Hood cuts him off sharply. "He makes a living ruining lives. He profits off of other people suffering, and when I put a bullet through his skull, the world will be a better place."

"There are better ways of doing things," Dick says.

"No, there aren't," Hood says. Rage aside, there's a definite finality in his voice when he speaks. Hood's convinced it's the truth, and there's no room for argument. "Your way--Batman's way doesn't work."

Dick gets up and stalks a foot or so away before turning to look back at Hood.

He opens his mouth to reply, but Hood doesn't give him the chance. He says, "No. You stop a bad guy and they're back on the streets pulling the same exact crap in a year. A month. I stop them and they stay stopped. They don't get the chance to hurt anybody else. You tell me which method's more effective."

"That's not the point, Hood."

"Then what is?"

"Not everyone who does bad things is a bad person," Dick says. And how screwed is it that the prime supporting evidence for that fact is sitting right in front of him?

Because at the root of it he knows Hood isn't a bad person. He's just lost. Something somewhere along the way went wrong with him, and he can't see that what he's doing isn't right, but his intentions are good. He wants to protect people. That's what he thinks he's doing.

Dick doesn't agree with his actions. Can't possibly condone them. Shooting people in cold blood, acting the part of judge, jury, and executioner. And he's seen Hood fighting up close, the man's brutal. But he's thoroughly convinced that what he's doing is keeping other people safe. Convinced that it's the only possible way for him to keep people safe. Dick's lost as to how to make him see that it's so far from the truth.

He shakes his head and adds, "And even if they are, they can be better."

"And how many innocent lives are you risking when you take that chance?"

Dick's hands clench into fists at his sides before unclenching again. He paces another step, clearly not getting anywhere with this guy, but not willing to give up just yet. He says to the wall, "People change."

"Bullshit."

"You did," Dick snaps, whirling back around to look at him. "This time last year you wanted me dead. Last night you saved my life. What do you call that?"

"A lapse in judgement," Hood answers coldly, folding his arms over his chest and slouching a little lower.

Dick lets out a heavy sigh and decides to drop it for now. He can't keep going in circles with this jerk, and anyway it's not like it's an overly urgent topic at the moment. Hood can't even walk. Despite his earlier attempt to convince Dick otherwise, he's not gonna be out trying to kill anyone anytime soon.

"Whatever," Dick murmurs, and he's not sure if it's directed at himself or Hood.

He moves to finish taping off the bandage to Hood's shoulder, and Hood essentially just ignores him. Dick discards the rubber gloves and steps down the hallway towards the bathroom to wash his hands.

As an afterthought, he pops his head back into the bedroom and tosses something towards Hood, who catches it on instinct before asking, "The hell is this?"

It's a hoodie.

He picked one up for Hood at the store, because he thought most of his would be too small. It's a zip-up, because Dick thought that would be easier on a cracked rib than a pullover. Charcoal gray, because they were out of black. What Dick's getting at here is that he deserves a lot of points for being so damn considerate for this asshole.

"You can put the hood up and I'll lend you a mask," Dick says with a small shrug. "Might be more comfortable than wearing that ugly ass helmet twenty-four seven."

"Discowing," Hood says simply. "You don't get to make style judgements."

Fair enough.

"Would it kill you to say thank you? Just once?"

In fact, it just might. Not that Dick's doing any of this because he wants gratitude, and he sure as hell doesn't expect any. It's the Red Hood he's dealing with. Dick will just be glad when the guy stops trying to beat him up every time he tries to help.

"Fuck off."

Dick rolls his eyes and ducks back out of the room.

* * *

It's just after eight o'clock at night and Dick's sitting on the couch in his living room. There's something playing on the T.V. but it's mostly just there for background noise, because right now Dick's parked behind his laptop with about a dozen tabs open.

Several of them are news sites and the like, with articles dating back over all last month but not much further than that. He's hoping to dig up some more information of whatever shitstorm he's gotten himself into with this guy Hood was telling him about. Right about now, he really wishes he could get Tim in on this. 

The rest of the pages are various, probably crappy, medical pages.

Alfred gave him plenty of advice on what to look for and what to do to make sure Hood's healing goes well, and Dick knows if anything else comes up he can call Alfred with it. But Dick can't help but feel somewhat useless, just sitting there on his couch. So he bounces back and forth between his research to the medical pages, picking up whatever information he can. 

He tells himself it's because he just can't wait to get Hood the hell out of his apartment.

Really, he thinks it has more to do with the fact that's he's responsible for this happening in the first place.

* * *

Dick heats up some chicken soup for dinner on the stove and brings it to Hood in one of those deep, bowl-like mugs. It's part of a set that he mostly bought as a joke, they all have different Justice League logos imprinted onto the sides. He gives Hood the Batman one because, after the day he's had, he gets to be a little petty.

He steps into the room carrying the mug, and he's about to awkwardly flip the lights on when Hood says, sounding half asleep and yet with conviction, "Turn that light on and I'll kick your teeth in."

"A 'please don't' would've sufficed," Dick says, leaving the lights off nonetheless.

The yellow that creeps in through the open door from the hallway is enough as he makes his way over to the side of the bed. He shoots a look down at Hood, who's shifting to sit up again. His breathing stays even but not without deliberate focus.

He's wearing the hoodie Dick gave him, and the dramatic bastard didn't even need to borrow a domino, because apparently he already wears one under the helmet. The helmet that now stares up at him from the pillow next to Hood. Given the lack of decent lighting in the room, the hoodie and mask work about as well as the helmet did at concealing his features.

Which is probably why Hood asked him to leave the lights off.

Dick holds the mug out towards Hood, and Hood eyes it warily before accepting it. He asks, "Soup?"

"Nothing much. What's soup with you?"

Even Dick's willing to admit it's a terrible joke. Which is why he figures Hood must be delirious from pain or sleep or something when he actually laughs at it.

It's not much. Just a scoff and a light chuckle. But it's nothing like any laugh Dick's heard from the man before. Not cold or abrasive or cruel. Just genuine, and almost friendly.

"You're an idiot," Hood tells him, shaking his head.

"It's been said before."

Hood takes in a deep breath, absorbing the warmth radiating up from the bowl. It's by far one of the best parts about having soup. The comfort that comes from holding a warm bowl or mug, with the steam wafting up to heat your face.

It's a very normal thing to do and, for that reason exactly, Dick almost feels weird seeing the Red Hood do it. A few minutes later, Dick's catching the half empty bowl as it slips slowly out of Hood's hands, Hood drifting easily back off to sleep.

Only when Dick's turning to head back out does he notice the pain meds are finally absent from their spot on the nightstand.


	5. Reaching Out

Dick's standing in the kitchen debating whether or not he can get away with putting dishes off until tomorrow when his phone goes off.

He frowns and checks the screen, wondering who would even be calling him this late.

He's half expecting some sort of spam call. He's been getting them all week and he's half convinced Tim gave his number out to some telemarketer as revenge for Dick taking photos when he fell asleep on that roof last month. Potential beginnings of prank wars aside, it doesn't turn out to be a spam call. No, it's something much worse.

It's Bruce.

On facetime.

Dick's open to the possibility that he's a little paranoid, since he's currently keeping some pretty big secrets from him, but the though occurs that he can't deny the call without Bruce knowing that something's up. In fact, it's definitely possible that Bruce is only calling because he already knows that something's up. Facetime's a great way to make sure he catches any tells that Dick's lying to him, after all.

Dick brushes the paranoia to the side, but he does take his domino off before answering, just to avoid suspicion. He swipes to accept the call and says, "Hey, B. What's up?"

"I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

"Yeah, I'm fine," Dick says. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well I know journalists have a tendency to exaggerate, but I have it from several sources that a few tons of concrete were dropped on you yesterday."

Right.

Dick's only sort of been paying attention to the news today. It's proven useless, since it's not like they have any information he doesn't.

He thought maybe there would be some information on the goons Dick followed there, who they work for or something. But it looks like no one even knows they were there, because there's been no mention of them. The news only seems to be reporting that a witness saw the Red Hood entering the building about an hour before the blast, and a different one saw Nightwing leaving, carrying someone out. They left out the bit about it being Hood he was carrying.

The story on the news is fuzzy at best.

He offers a lazy shrug and says, "I got out okay."

A few bruises and scrapes don't feel like much to complain about, especially not with how he knows things could've gone.

"Glad to hear it," Bruce says with a small nod. "And Red Hood? Is he alright?"

It's a little more hesitant, like he's not sure he can ask. But his eyebrows pull together, into an expression that's more concerned than Dick was prepared for him to be about the Red Hood.

He doesn't look anxious, not by a longshot. But Dick's trained enough in reading Bruce's guarded, micro-expressions by now to tell that he's at least a little worried. That he genuinely cares what happened to Hood in the explosion. And it's not like Dick was expecting Bruce to just not give a shit, he's the guy who keeps trying to help Gotham's so-called villains when a lot of people would've given up on there being any good in them by now.

But Hood did try to kill both of them a year ago and, well, Bruce refuses to talk about him. Ever. So Dick wasn't really expecting a display of caring of any kind.

If he had any doubt before that those two know each other better than they'll say, it's gone now.

And Dick can't lie to him, not when he asks like that. But he can't tell the truth either, so he shrugs and says, "Yeah, he got out."

Bruce passes a hand over his face, and for a second he just seems more tired than usual. It almost sounds like it pains him to ask when he says, "They're saying he was trying to kill you. Any truth to it?"

Dick doesn't know why he's surprised they're reporting it that way, but for some reason he is. What's more concerning is that he's kind of offended on Hood's behalf.

Logically it makes sense for the news to reach that conclusion with the information they have. But it's a bitter irony, considering it looks like the real target of that explosion was actually Hood. Not to mention they're accusing the guy who saved Dick's life of trying to kill him. Besides, Hood's got plenty of murders he's actually committed, without being accused of attempted ones he hasn't.

"Hood? Seriously?"

"I'll take that as a no."

"No. Hood's the reason I got out okay," Dick says. He's not sure he should be telling Bruce this, seeing as he's guarding some other information about Hood right now and this conversation could lead into dangerous territory. Bruce will flip if he finds out Dick's taking care of Hood, and Hood will flip if he finds out Dick told Bruce. He doesn't want to deal with either of their drama right now.

But he can't make sense of Hood saving him, and he's not getting any real answers out of Hood. Maybe Bruce will be able to shed some insight. It's obvious he knows more about Hood than he's telling.

Bruce frowns.

Dick takes it as a silent request that he elaborate, so he says, "He pushed me out of the way. There was someone else there, this arms dealer guy. I don't know who he is yet, he's new."

"And that's who Red Hood wanted to kill?" 

"No. Well, yeah. But he wanted to kill Hood too, and that's why the building went down," Dick explains.

Bruce nods, like it makes sense, but doesn't offer any reasoning as to why Hood would've wanted to help him. It's not like Bruce is usually an open book, but Dick can't help but feel like there's a whole lot he isn't telling him.

After a second, he says, "I'll look into this new guy. In the meantime, I want you to leave the Red Hood alone."

"Shouldn't be a problem," Dick says simply.

"I mean it, Dick," Bruce says, apparently catching his easy agreement as the suspicious answer that it is. "I don't want you getting hurt. He's too dangerous for you to go after alone."

Dick's answering before he can think better of it.

"Is he? He saved my life, Bruce."

"He protected me too. We were fighting the Hand of Four and he pushed me out of the way of a blast." Bruce shares this detail as if it's going to prove his point that Hood's a problem, and Dick's not sure he wants to know why. Then Bruce continues, "And later that week, he was blowing up buildings, and putting a gun in my hand, asking me to kill Joker. He's dangerously unstable."

Dick just sits there in stunned silence.

It's the most information he's gotten Bruce to give him about what went down between him and Hood last year, and he's not sure what to do with it. For it being the most information he's gotten, it doesn't answer a lot of questions. In fact, it only gives him more.

Hood hates Batman. It's the only fact Dick's been sure of since they met. Everything Dick knows about the guy, from the showing up in Gotham trying to kill him to the vitriol and righteous fury whenever Batman's name leaves his tongue, indicates that Hood hates him. It's possible he even hates him more than the criminals he kills.

Now Bruce is saying Hood protected him.

And apparently that means nothing to either of them.

There's a noise in the background, and Bruce sends a look over his shoulder before turning back to the phone. He says, "I have to go. Tell me you'll stay away from the Red Hood."

Dick still has questions, but he knows that even if he asks he won't get answers. With a heavy sigh he says, "Yeah, okay. I will."

"Thank you," Bruce says, and he looks like he's about to hang up when he stops. The tension in his face releases a little and he says, almost apologetic, "You deserve an explanation and I'll give you one. Now's just...not the time."

"I get it," Dick says, even if he doesn't. "Talk soon. Bye."

The screen closes, and then Dick's staring at his phone wallpaper. He just sits there for a second, staring at the phone but not really seeing it, lost in thought. Then he shakes his head, as if it'll shake the topic back to the far off corners of his head, and decides to go back to the couch. It's time to get some real sleep.

* * *

Dick's back in the parking garage.

It's shakier than he remembers it, with loose rubble falling down in whatever direction he looks. The noise is disorienting and there's too much of it for him to make out any particular sound clearly. The ringing in his ears is the same. When he focuses on the sound of shouting all the other noises suddenly seem to drop away all at once. 

Dick finally turns around to find Hood trapped under the cement.

No, this is wrong. They already did this.

Dick stands there, confused, but the longer he stands there the more blood comes pouring out onto the ground. He doesn't remember there being this much blood the last time this happened. It sticks to his shoes. Makes the ground slippery when he steps forward to help.

Hood doesn't talk to him this time. Won't talk to him.

The first time Dick tries to lift the concrete off, it's too heavy and he drops it again. Hears a sharp snap that has to be bone. By the time he gets Hood free, there's enough blood on the ground to have killed him two times over.

Dick helps him up.

They're halfway down the staircase, and then it's not Hood he's carrying anymore, because Hood morphs into a young Jason. He's no older than fourteen. Smaller than Dick remembers him. And Dick sees his face and drops him in shock.

He reaches back out to him almost immediately, but the building shakes again and the stairs drop away. Jason falls.

Dick tries to save him, but his limbs aren't moving fast enough.

He can't save him.

Again.

Needless to say, sleep was a pipe dream. Dick jerks awake so fast he almost falls off the couch, one arm still reaching out for a hand he can't get to, and the name of a dead kid on his tongue.

He sits up and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if it can scrub away the dream. He should know by now that it doesn't work.

When Jason died Dick got a lot of dreams like that. It's not like he saw it happen, so his brain had a lot of material to work with, offering different variations of the same scene over and over again. Dick was never able to save him, there was always some invisible barrier preventing Dick from getting to him in time. He hasn't had a dream like that in over a year.

He doesn't know why they're apparently coming back now.

He doesn't want to think about it, so he gets up and heads back into the kitchen. Decides to do those dishes he's been putting off.

It's a mindless task, but after a couple of minutes the sound of the sink water running starts to drown out the echoes still left in his head. It's quiet when he turns the tap back off. He dries the dishes with an ugly yellow rag, and by the time he's finished putting them away, the exhaustion's caught back up with him again.

Dick lays back down on the couch, and he's asleep before his head even hits the pillow. 


	6. Don't Mention It

Dick wakes up and it's still mostly dark outside.

The beginnings of the morning light creep in just a little through the open curtains. A quick glance over at the kitchen, where the clock on the microwave blinks a steady neon green, reveals it to be just past four in the morning. The blanket he's been using is half thrown on the floor, and his throat feels uncomfortably dry.

All of which Dick notices before noticing that there's an entire other person in the room. Standing at the kitchen counter.

And standing is a generous way to put it, because he's mostly holding himself up by the counter itself, both hands pressed into like anchors. Still, Dick's off the couch in an instant and ready for a fight before he realizes that it's just Hood.

Some of the tension drops from Dick's shoulders, and he asks, "Hood? What the hell are you doing up, man?"

"You were shouting," Hood says, not explaining beyond that.

Dick's not sure what it was he was shouting, but the only way he can interpret that is that Hood thought he needed help.

Whether he thought someone had broken in or he knew Dick was having nightmares and just thought he should wake him up isn't clear. What is clear, though, is that Hood hauled himself all the way in here to make sure Dick was okay. Which, by the looks of it, took some effort.

Dick's not sure hot to articulate his thoughts on that. He says, less than helpfully, "You shouldn't be walking."

"Thanks for the newsflash. You good?"

Dick offers a half assed attempt at a grin and jokes, "Aww, you do care. So sweet."

"Okay, you're fine," Hood says flatly. He pushes himself away from the counter to turn and leave. "I'm going back to sleep."

And Dick was just kidding around, but he feels kind of bad for making fun of him when Hood's good leg buckles and he stumbles forward. He just manages to catch himself on the wall before he can totally fall over. Dick already has an idea of the response he's going to get, but all the same he asks, "D'you need some help?"

"I got it."

Dick's willing to accept that as true, if only because Hood managed to make it all the way here, and arguing with him is getting old. Only he struggles another two or three steps and then almost falls over again. Dick thinks it has something to do with that one loose floorboard in the hall he keeps forgetting to fix. But it doesn't matter why, just that when he loses his balance and there's no wall to grab, on instinct, he sticks his bad leg out to catch himself.

Of course that doesn't work. There's an abrupt shout and a second later he hits the floor.

Dick's at his side in an instant.

He doesn't remember deciding to become so overprotective of this asshole, but somehow here he is, checking to make sure he didn't hurt himself falling over again. Asking in a voice tinged with worry, "You okay?"

"Fine," Hood says to the floor. He shrugs Dick's hands away, but doesn't headbutt him this time so that's got to be progress. He sounds more frustrated than anything else. "Get off'a me. I don't need your help."

"And I'm giving it to you anyway. I'm nice like that."

"You're a real saint," Hood says dryly.

"Aren't I?"

The sarcastic smile is lost on Hood, whose attention is focused solely on the ground in front of him. He's trying, and largely failing, to get his good leg back underneath himself so he can stand up. Dick watches him for a second and gets the distinct impression that, even if those ribs aren't broken yet, if Hood were left to his own devices to get better that would change pretty damn quick.

"Yeah, you are," he says. "Patron saint of being an overbearing asshole."

He's just a little too stubborn for his own good.

Not unlike most people in Dick's life, actually. And the perk to that is that Dick feels fairly equipped to deal with it. He rocks back on his heels and tells Hood simply, "You can either let me help or I'm picking you up and carrying you."

Hood shoots a look at him over his shoulder. At the angle, Dick can only see half of his face past the hoodie, and it's not like he can see his eyes anyway. Still, he gets the impression Hood's sizing him up. Trying to figure out whether that's a bluff or not.

He must come to the conclusion that Dick isn't kidding, because after a second he sighs and sticks an arm out towards Dick.

"Smart choice."

"Shut up," Hood answers, sounding more like somebodies exasperated little brother than a stone cold killer.

Dick slings the arm across his shoulders, hauling Hood up to his feet. Hood doesn't make it easy, but at least he's not deadweight this time either. Dude's heavy.

The couch is a lot closer, so for right now Dick leads him that way. When he releases his grip on Hood's arm, he's expecting the guy to ease himself down on his own. It seems he's expended his energy for the night, though, because instead he just drops onto the couch with a soft thud. Dick shakes his head, then steps around to sit next to him.

After a minute, Dick mutters, "Thanks."

"What for?" Hood says, almost defensive.

"Checking on me," Dick says.

He doesn't really want Hood going through all the trouble of coming to check on him because of one little bad dream. He knows how to deal with them on his own by now and besides, Hood might hurt himself doing that. Still, Hood could've ignored it, and he didn't. It says something, and Dick feels like he should acknowledge it.

"Don't mention it," Hood says. Less like someone humbly dismissing gratitude, and more like a strict order.

It might be funny if it wasn't so ridiculous; Hood can go through all the trouble of coming to make sure he's okay, and pushing him out of the way of collapsing ceilings, and that's fine. But if Dick tries to verbally acknowledge the help he's given him, even just to thank him for it, that's crossing the line somehow.

"Well, I already mentioned it, so," Dick says, just to be petty. Hood doesn't comment, but he does move to get up, and Dick stops him with a, "Wait, lemme help you."

Hood just says, "Pass."

The effect of which is lost when he can't even seem to get up from a couch without struggling. He hides it well enough, but Dick still catches the slight wince, the way his jaw clenches.

And Dick knows it's not personal, but it's difficult not to get just a little annoyed, when someone's obviously struggling so much and still refuses any help you offer them. 

Without thinking, Dick says, "Look, I want you gone just as much as you wanna leave."

Admittedly, that comes out a bit harsher than he means it. Because he's tired and frustrated, and it's not the point he wanted to make, but it's also not like it's not true.

He doesn't hate the guy as much as he thinks he should, but he still doesn't want him around. Hood's a murderer and, frankly, a terrible houseguest. Arguing with him night and day is exhausting. But that's so far from the point Dick's trying to make right now, especially after tonight. So when Hood scoffs, Dick backpedals. He says, "I don't mean it like that."

Hood seems skeptical, but for once he doesn't argue. He's stuck on this couch until he can accept Dick's help, which is the actual point Dick wanted to make. So with marked disinterest, Hood asks, "Then what do you mean?"

He means that he wants Hood to recover enough to be able to take care of himself. He means he'll do just about anything to make that happen, because despite all of Hood's protests that he doesn't need Dick's help, he doesn't have anyone else. None of that feels like something Hood wants to hear right now, because he takes any form of compassion as either suspicious or an insult.

"You're only here because you can't get better on your own," Dick says, matter of fact. "Which'll go a lot smoother if you let me help."

"I would've been fine on my own."

"You would've bled out on your own, dumbass."

"Fuck off," Hood says eloquently.

And the fact he doesn't have a better response means he knows that it's true. He knows he needs help right now, he's just not willing to admit it. To himself or to Dick. The stubborn bastard.

Dick only presses the issue because this is something he needs Hood to understand if they're going to pull this off; Hood's going to heal a hell of a lot faster if he can just accept that healing is something he needs to do. And that doesn't include ignoring pain meds all day, falling on the floor because he's an idiot, or limping all the way back to the other room out of spite when there's someone willing to help him.

He sighs and says, "It's okay to need help sometimes. You can't do this by yourself."

"Yes, I can! I have to. I'm the only one--" Hood's answer comes as fast as it does feral, but he cuts himself off abruptly. He shakes his head and says, "You let someone else help you, and what happens when they don't show? I can't...I don't need you."

The stone's returned to his voice by the end, but for a dangerous second there Dick thought he caught a glimpse past it.

Dick tells him, "I'm not asking to be your friend. When you're all healed up you don't ever have to trust me again. But for right now? Yeah, you do need me."

"So did you get that savior complex from Batman, or is it something you picked up all by yourself?"

Hood's voice is as thick with loathing as it always is when Batman comes up.

Dick thinks back to Bruce's voice when he was talking about Hood and realizes they don't match up. Where Hood's got this sort of righteous fury, Bruce just sounds tired. Dick can't help but wonder if that relates to what Hood just said, about trusting someone else to help you and them not showing up.

Dick doesn't immediately answer, so Hood smacks a coaster and an empty old cereal bowl off the coffee table. They clatter to the floor, a dirty spoon skidding underneath the t.v. stand, and he says, more aggressively, "I don't need you, asshole! Go find some other poor bastard to save, so you can feel good and important for a little while. Just leave me the hell out of it."

"No."

"What?"

"No. If you wanted left out of it, you shouldn't've saved me in the garage," Dick says simply.

"I couldn't let you get hurt."

He's a little thrown off by the sincerity behind Hood's response but, to be fair, it seems like Hood's surprised by it too. Possibly even more than Dick is.

Dick's not sure he wants to ask, but he has to know, "Why not?"

"Because--I don't know! Shut up," Hood says, defensive. Dick's not sure what there is to be defensive about, he's not accusing him of anything. "I just couldn't. Does it fucking matter why?"

Yes. No.

Dick's not sure, so he doesn't answer. Instead he poses a different question. One that he hopes will finally be able to get through to this guy. He asks gently, "Hood, you saw that I needed help and you were there for me. I'm alive because of it. What makes you think I won't be there for you?"

There's a beat of silence.

Then Hood coughs and says, "If I let you walk me back can we stop having this conversation?"

It's sarcastic as ever, but Dick's willing to take it as a breakthrough anyway. So he shrugs and says, "Yeah."

"Okay. Fine."

It took way too much debating to get there, but Dick stands up and holds a hand down to Hood. Helps him off the couch, tosses an arm across his shoulders once more and guides Hood towards the hallway.

He tells Hood to watch out for that one loose floorboard, and Hood tells him to go to hell, and eventually they make it through the bedroom doorway. Which is where Hood seems to decide he's done enough letting Dick help him for now, because he pushes Dick away there. Sort of hobbles the next few steps back to bed, the wood of the splint dragging along the wood floor with an unsettling scraping sound, before collapsing face first onto the mattress.

Better that than the floor, at least.

When it looks like he's having trouble getting his leg to join the rest of him on the bed, Dick steps forward to help, and Hood must be tired because he doesn't even protest.

Once Hood's back in bed successfully, Dick turns to leave again. He makes it as far as the doorway before Hood says, quietly, "Hey, uh...Thanks."

"Don't mention it."


	7. The Only Way

"Morning, sunshine."

It's actually mid-afternoon, but that's just semantics.

Dick pulls back one of the blackout curtains, not enough to properly light up the room--Hood remains adamantly against the idea, but he's gonna be here a while so Dick figures at least little light will do some good. If the way Hood grumbles, "You're...sunshine," before tossing an arm over his eyes to block the incoming sun is any indication, he disagrees. That, or he's unwilling to wake up just yet.

Which is fine, because he'll heal faster if he's asleep.

But the rest of Gotham doesn't just stop because the Red Hood's been benched, and Dick needs to get more info about the players responsible for benching him from somewhere before they can hurt anyone else. And so far his independent research hasn't provided any leads.

"Got a question for you," Dick says, setting a glass of water on the nightstand for Hood to completely ignore.

Hood shows no indication he's even listening, aside from yanking a blanket up over his head. He sticks one arm out briefly to flip the bird, before that, too, disappears under the heap of blankets with the rest of him.

It's vaguely reminiscent, Dick thinks, of a teenager unwilling to wake up in the morning and get ready for school. With the comparison comes the realization that Dick really has no idea how old this kid is. He can't be older than twenty. Definitely too young to be dealing with the crap he's been dealing with. But Dick knows from experience that life rarely cares how young you are.

He derails that train of thought, instead asking, "How did you know they'd be at the parking garage?"

Hood pulls the blanket back away from his face with a tired groan. Still, he doesn't bother opening his eyes when he says, less than helpfully, "Why you wanna know?"

"Well, I was sort of hoping to find them before they blow up any more buildings," Dick says.

"We're going after them?" It's finally enough for him to deem the conversation worthy of waking up for, and he moves to actually sit up a bit. It wakes more effort than it should, and he doesn't quite manage to hide the wince, as the movement agitates either his ribs or his leg or anything else in the myriad of injuries he's managed to collect, and Dick wonders if he should feel a little bad for waking him up. None of the pain he's in shows in his voice, though, when he asks, "What's our move?"

"We?" Dick echoes, raising an eyebrow. "Our?"

"You do remember I'm the one they wanted to blow up, right? If you're going after them, I'm coming with you."

"You can't walk."

"No," Hood admits. And then, "But I can still pull a trigger just fine."

He flashes a grin when he says this, raising a hand and waggling his fingers as if to prove the point. And he says it like a joke, sure, but Dick knows he's only partially kidding.

He very much can still pull the trigger, and he's more than stubborn enough to try it. If only he could walk more than two feet without faceplanting into the ground. Dick's got a feeling that even if he'd lost the whole leg in that collapse, he'd still be stupid enough to try and go after this guy. He's not sure who that fact makes him more worried for; Hood or the goons he's after.

"What part about that comment was supposed to convince me you can help?"

"I'm not asking for your permission, alright?" Hood says.

No, of course he's not. He says it like he means it and besides, Dick doesn't thinking asking anyone's permission has ever been something Hood's done.

Still, he has to know he's not going anywhere by himself anytime soon, least of all a gunfight. He couldn't even make it down the one hallway on his own. Of course he knows it, he's just not willing to accept it. Not willing to accept that there's nothing more he can do right now. It might be sort of admirable, if it weren't so ridiculous.

"You can't _walk."_

It's not something Dick should've had to say at all, and here he is, repeating himself.

"I'll get crutches."

"Crutches? A slab of concrete crushed your leg like thirty six hours ago," Dick says, resisting the urge to yell it at him. "You're not going anywhere for awhile. And I'm definitely not letting you shoot anyone, even when you can."

"Fuck's sake! We can argue ethics and philosophy for as long as you want once this guy's dead, bluebird, but I'm not just gonna sit here and let him hurt somebody else."

"Yeah, well you don't really have much of a choice in the matter, Hood."

The last time Dick said something like that to this guy, he wound up in a chokehold. He's prepared for an attack this time.

Only it doesn't come. Whether that's because Dick took the precaution of standing a little more out of reach this time, or because Hood recognizes the futility of trying to fight him right now, Dick can't really tell. His fists just clench and unclench at his sides a few times, never actually swinging. And Dick's not sure what Hood's angrier at. Dick saying it, or the fact that it's true.

The kid's hardwired to do one thing and that's fight, and instead he's trapped in a foreign room, relying on a stranger for help while the goons that put him here run free.

And Dick feels a bit like an ass for thinking it's anything as selfish as personal revenge when Hood snaps, "They're recruiting kids."

One thing Dick does know about when Hood's appearance in Gotham last year; when he took over the drug cartels, he made it a rule they couldn't deal to kids. Recruiting them for work in a gunrunning operation isn't likely to sit well with him. It shouldn't sit well with anyone, to be fair. But the point is, Hood's even more pissed than Dick already thought. It's gonna be a long week.

"How do you know?" Dick asks. Because he still doesn't know where Hood's gotten a single piece of info, and arguing with him about whether he can help stop them or not is all well and good, but it's useless if Dick can't even find them.

"Kid from my apartment building," Hood says. "They made him an offer. He rejected it. They threatened him. He came to me. It's how I know the operation exists in the first place, they've been pretty under the radar, in case you haven't noticed."

"Did the kid know it was the Red Hood he was asking for help?"

Hood shrugs noncommittally, saying, "Don't think so."

Dick's not sure what's weirder. That Hood actually answered the question, or the idea that he lives in an apartment building. With neighbors that he apparently talks to and everything. Which is hypocritical of him, maybe, because a lot of people might think it's weird that Nightwing lives in an apartment somewhere. But Nightwing doesn't carry a gun or try to blow people up.

Dick hums and says, a hint of a question, "You said you'd been onto them for a whole month."

"Why should I tell you where I get my intel, exactly?" Hood asks impatiently.

A fair question, from his perspective at least.

Because Dick's not just refusing to help him kill these people, he's actively stopping Hood from doing it. If the only way Hood sees them as stopped is if they're dead, then handing them over to Dick is the same thing as protecting them. Still, Dick says, "I think you're gonna tell me."

"Why's that?" Hood says it like he says most things. Like a challenge.

"'Cause that kid you mentioned isn't safe while these guys are out there," Dick answers coolly. "And even you're not bullheaded enough to ignore that."

Hood glares at him.

Dick's probably the first person who's been on the receiving end of that glare to think of it as a good sign. If Hood's mad, it's because he knows Dick's right. So after a second, Hood huffs out a sigh and says, "Fine."

"Great."

"Shut up," Hood says. He takes a small sip of the water from the nightstand before replacing it, saying, "I found a contact in the operation two weeks ago. She does the books."

Dick remembers thinking this guy must've had good training last year after seeing him fight. He can't help but think the same now. If he only found a leak in the organization two weeks ago, the rest of that month he's been onto them he's been doing his own detective work. It can't have been easy.

"Okay, where can I find her?"

Just when Dick thought this conversation was finally going his way, Hood shakes his head. He says, "She won't talk to you."

Dick asks, a bit skeptical, "She'll talk to the Red Hood but not me?"

"She knows I won't turn her in to the cops, for one thing."

"And I won't shoot her," Dick says.

"Neither will I, asshole," Hood says, almost offended. Only he'd have to actually value Dick's opinion to be offended. "I know what they say about me on the news, and I know what the Bat says about me, but I am not some deranged lunatic. When I shoot someone it's 'cause they've earned it."

Briefly, Dick wonders whether or not Hood knows that's exactly what a deranged lunatic would say.

He shakes his head and says, "That's not your place to decide."

"Oh, and it's yours?" Hood asks, his voice betraying an unsettling amount of ice.

"That's not--"

"I do the one thing you can't," Hood snaps, before Dick can even begin to offer an argument, slamming a fist into the mattress at his side. "You wanna know why she'll talk to me and not you? It's because when I hit them, they'll stay down. It's permanent, and it's the only way to guarantee that those scumbags don't hurt anyone else ever again."

Dick huffs, taking a step backwards, opening his mouth to say something but changing his mind halfway there. Eventually what he comes up with is, "Not the only way."

"You don't get it," Hood says with a scoff. "You can lock up the bad guys and play the hero all you want, but those people they hurt? They will never feel safe again. Not knowing the son of a bitch responsible is still out there. Still capable of doing it to someone else."

"So what, you just kill them? Problem solved?"

"Pretty much."

It's oddly personal.

It's always personal. When someone puts on a mask and takes on fights that aren't their own, they usually have a reason for it. Dick's parents. Bruce's parents. Just for two examples. But for Hood it's different, and Dick can't quite figure out how. Frankly, he's not entirely sure he wants to know. Hood was a good person before whatever happened to him. He doesn't want to see what's capable of twisting a person like that.

He states, "It doesn't undo the damage."

"It comes damn near close," Hood says, and Dick's not sure that he even believes it himself.

Dick wonders how many times they're going to have this argument.

For the time being, though, he's done arguing. He doesn't have the time for it, and they're going in circles anyway. He's not going to convince Hood to change in a day. He might not ever convince Hood to change. But one thing he can do is stop those goons from destroying any more of Gotham's parking structures.

With a small sigh, Dick says, "Tell me about this contact of yours."

* * *

Dick spends the next twenty minutes or so discussing the intel Hood's gotten on the organization with him.

In that time, Dick learns that Hood's contact is a woman named Angie. Doing the books for them isn't something she wanted to sign up for, but they paid well, and she needed the money enough that she didn't ask questions until it was too late. They're not about to let her leave now, she knows too much. So it's a job she's stuck with, until the Red Hood can take them down.

She's also the one who told Hood to be at the parking garage. Hood won't even entertain the idea that she knew it was a trap. He says she's not that good of a liar.

Which means it's more likely they know there's a leak. Which means Dick's not really sure how helpful meeting up with her now is going to be.

The organization isn't from Gotham. Dick's not shocked to learn that much, he doubts something this big could've formed here without someone noticing. The guy in charge, the white suit from the parking garage, goes by the name Kodro and that's about all Hood's learned about him. Well, that and the fact that he's, and this is a direct quote, "a low-life, maggot, piece of shit."

Dick's kind of forced to agree. The guy deals everything from guns to drugs to people, apparently, and he's not above hiring kids to work for him.

Anyway, Hood doesn't know where they're from yet. Just that they're here on an invitation from one of Gotham's pre-existing criminal organizations. Which one, he also doesn't know.

It's a lot of info, most of which will probably be useful in the long run, but right now is functionally useless. Dick still doesn't know where they're going to be next, he just knows more about where they're going.

* * *

When the sun's starting to set, Dick gets ready to head out.

He's no more comfortable leaving Hood alone than he was the last time he left, but he's got work to do. He won't be gone for as long usual, it'll just be a quick trip, out and back.

First, he has to get Hood to tell him where he can find Angie.

"You never listen, do you? She won't talk to you," Hood says, ignoring the meds Dick set down on the nightstand next to him. "You want her to tell you anything, you're gonna have to take me with you."

"I don't wanna have to set the bone again when you mess it up. It was gross."

"Oh, was my broken leg not fun for you? I'm sorry," Hood says, laying on heavy with the sarcasm.

He makes a fair point, but Dick rolls his eyes all the same. He nods towards the nightstand and says, "How about you take your pain meds before we talk about you going anywhere?"

He's almost sure he hears Hood muttering some insult or other under his breath. But he won't push it, because Hood does it while picking the pills up. He looks at them skeptically for a second, and Dick almost worries he'll notice they're not the same ones as last time and decide not to trust them. The scrutiny passes, though, and Hood takes them without actually arguing.

Good. They take a few minutes to kick in, and Dick doesn't want to leave without knowing they're working.

"You can't stop me from leaving," Hood says. "So you might as well just take me with you. Easier for both of us."

"Easiest for both of us would be you taking the time you need to heal," Dick answers. Not that it matters. Something tells him Hood's never much cared for taking the easy way. "And when I don't learn anything, you get to say 'I told you so.' Just tell me where to find her."

Hood huffs and asks, "What day is it?"

Dick's not really sure what that has to do with anything, but he says, "Thursday."

"I usually meet her at that bar off thirty second and Jefferson," Hood says. "Crunchy's or something dumb like that."

"You're not twenty one," Dick says. He doesn't know why that's the part he chooses to comment on, and not the fact that someone would name a place Crunchy's. 

Hood shoots Dick a quick glare, which is fair because it's sort of off topic, before admitting, "It's not the kind of place that asks."

"So how old are you, then?"

"Does it matter?"

Not really. Dick's just stalling.

"Yes."

Hood seems a little skeptical, but after a second he answers, "Nineteen."

"Aww, you're just a baby."

"Fuck off."

Fair enough. Dick shrugs and gets back on topic. "So Crunchy's. How will I know who Angie is?"

Hood offers a vague description of her, and the fact that they usually meet at the pool table. Or at least, Dick thinks it's the pool table. He's not sure, because Hood sort of trails off about halfway through the sentence.

It was sort of an underhanded move, Dick's aware, but the pain meds he gave to Hood this time just happen to be the kind that also make you fall asleep. He needs to know Hood's not going to pull anything that gets him hurt again while he's gone, and Hood's far too stubborn for Dick to just trust him on it. He can feel bad about it later, but tonight he's got bad guys to find.

"You son of a bitch," Hood says, apparently connecting the dots.

Dick offers an apologetic smile and tries an, "I'm sorry?"

Hood moves like he's thinking about getting up, but it's a little too late for that now so instead he slinks lower onto the mattress. Before he falls asleep, he mumbles something that sounds unsettlingly like, "I'm gonna kill you."


	8. The Sparking Fuse

Dick makes it out of his apartment and into the city just in time to catch the last of the sunset, painting Gotham as the inferno it tends to become at night. All reds, and yellows, and oranges reflecting off the building's usual grays. Maybe one night he'll actually be able to just step outside and enjoy that.

It's not tonight. Tonight he's on a mission. A time sensitive one.

Not that he wants to be there when Hood does wake up, Dick already knows he'll be furious. Probably rightly so. But if he wakes up and Dick's not around, Dick doesn't put it past him to try and leave. It's the reason he did what he did in the first place. Because the kid doesn't know how not to make his stupid injury even worse, it seems.

Crunchy's is easy enough to find, and more or less exactly what Dick pictures for a place called Crunchy's.

He circles the block once, running recon. The bar itself has two doors, a main entrance and an exit into the back alley. Dick's got a couple decent escape routes mapped before he even makes it back to the front door, just in case things don't go according to plan. It's only supposed to be a simple meeting with an accountant, but he wants to be prepared. So rarely simple meetings actually turn out to be simple, in this line of work.

The place isn't very full, and Dick doubts it ever is. But the few patrons who look like they've been there since early afternoon spread across the barstools, most of them in their forties and most of them drinking beer. It's not really the fancy cocktails type of place, that much is obvious.

The fluorescent red of the open sign buzzes in Dick's ear as he walks past, like the sparking fuse to a doomsday device.

It's a fairly fitting joint for the Red Hood, Dick can easily picture him picking fights at the bar or husting pool at the table near the back of the room. One of those end-of-the-world type places this side of Gotham's known for. 

Dick's got his suit on under a set of civilian clothes, the domino in his jacket pocket, because he's not really looking to cause a scene by having Nightwing walk right into the place. Angie definitely won't talk to him then. He's also not looking to be recognized as Dick Grayson though, hence the tinted reading glasses and baseball cap he also wears.

The lighting in this place is dim enough that it'll work like a charm. He suspects that was part of Hood's reasoning for picking it as a meeting place, assuming Crunchy's was his idea.

There's a woman matching Angie's description hovering by the pool table. Mid-thirties, short with glasses. She's not playing and neither is anyone else, but she's leaning against the wall there and looking around the room.

Dick orders something to avoid looking suspicious before making his way over to Angie. He nods towards the table and asks, "Do you play?"

"I'm waiting for someone," she says, with rehearsed disinterest.

"I know," Dick says, and she gives him a second look, shifting away from the wall like she's ready to bolt. She's probably wondering if he's some sort of cop, or a member of the organization who's onto her. And Hood's probably right, she probably won't talk to him. She doesn't seem the type to trust very easily. "He can't make it."

"And who are you?"

"A friend," he tries.

He's not sure whether he means to her or Hood. Some of the tension in her shoulders drops, but she's still skeptical when she says, "I didn't think he had those."

Dick shrugs and adjusts, "Closest thing he's got to a friend."

The worst thing is, he doesn't even think he's lying. Angie's right, Hood doesn't have friends. If he did, he wouldn't be Dick's problem right now.

And Angie still doesn't look like she trusts him, but she makes her way over to the table at least.

He gives her a second, and when she doesn't say anything he says, "You had something to tell him?"

"I...I'm not sure," she says, picking up a pool cue. Then she looks back at him and says, "Look, no offense, but I'd really be more comfortable talking with him."

"None taken," Dick says, putting his palms up with an easy smile. But she's not walking away yet, so maybe he still has a shot. He adds, "He kinda told me you might say that."

"Is he okay?"

It's not the response he was expecting, exactly. He thinks he has an idea why, but he says anyway, "Why d'you ask?"

"That garage that blew up," Angie says with a frown. "He was there."

He can't tell if it's guilt coloring her tone or not. Even if it is, it doesn't tell him anything. She might not have known what would happen, it wouldn't make the guilt go away. Dick knows how that goes.

But feelings aside, it's a question he needs answered. 

He goes to rack up the balls at the table, shooting a sideways look at Angie. He's careful to keep any accusations out of his tone when he says, "You sent him there, didn't you?"

"I suppose he already told you I did," Angie says, not much use in lying. She probably knows what it is he's really asking, though, because she adds, "I didn't know what they were doing there. I only had the address by accident."

Dick wonders whether it was actually an accident, or if she's just supposed to think that it was. Hoping he might figure it out, he asks, "How'd you get it?"

Instead of answering, Angie turns to him and says, "Where is he, anyway?"

They're not really getting anywhere, ignoring each other's questions in favor of asking their own. But Dick's not about to tell her anything. Obviously not a location, but he doubts she even needs to know he's injured. She's unreliable, be it unknowingly or intentional. The less she knows the better. Dick shrugs and says, "Like I said, he can't make it."

She takes the non-answer as an accusation. Says, "He thinks I set him up. That's why he sent you, isn't it? He's backing out of our deal, that bastard."

And he's not sure what their deal is exactly, but he gets the impression that it's the real reason she asked about his well-being before, and not out of any personal concerns. He doesn't know why it upsets him. Like Angie says, Hood doesn't have friends.

"Your deal?" he prompts.

"Your friend's supposed to protect me," she says. "It's the only reason I told him anything in the first place."

Dick's heard stories about what actually happens to criminals under Red Hood's protection; they don't tend to stay there once their usefulness is expended. Angie must not have heard the same stories to be trusting him. That, or she's more desperate to get out of this organization than he thought. 

Whatever her reasoning is and whatever she's done doesn't really matter. Of course Dick doesn't want her to get hurt. Useful or not. But that's not an attitude that'll get him anywhere in tracking these guys down, so it's information he'll have to keep to himself for now. He clears his throat and says, "Deal's still on. But y'know, part of that deal is that you keep talking."

Angie narrows her eyes at him. Evaluating. Then after a second, she says, "Fine. I'll tell you what I know."

* * *

Talking with Angie proves useful enough. He gets a couple of locations controlled by the organization; a taxi company they've been using as a front, a building on the pier. Stuff like that.

The only problem is, Dick can't be sure what's actually going to be useful or not. Angie's probably compromised. They probably know she's been spilling trade secrets to the Red Hood. If Dick didn't know any better, he'd say she's lucky she's even still alive. Only it's not luck. If they know, they're keeping her alive as a connection to Hood. To give misinformation, or lead him into traps like the one at the parking garage.

And the parking garage didn't kill him like it was supposed to. They don't know how close it came, just that he's not dead. For all they know, he got out unscathed, and all the more pissed.

Which means any one of the locations Angie just gave Dick could be the next trap.

* * *

Unfortunately, Dick's so focused on possible future traps that he almost doesn't notice the one he's already walked into.

He's lining up a shot at the Eight ball while he and Angie talk, and it's only by chance that he looks over when the text alert on her phone catches his attention. He catches a glimpse of the text, from an unidentified number, that reads, _'Move away from Red Hood.'_

It takes him a second before the text makes sense.

Whoever's texting her knows Hood was supposed to be meeting her here. They must think Dick's Hood. And they want her to move away because...Ah, fuck.

Dick drops under the pool table just as a bullet whizzes above, where his head had been a second ago, and slams into the wall behind him. He hears a second shot hit the wall immediately after, accompanied by the sound of breaking glass. At first he thinks it's the framed photos on the wall, and then he realizes it's the window. The shooter's outside.

Probably a sniper.

And Angie's running for the exit, along with most of the rest of the bar, meanwhile about three men are running in from the front entrance. Probably backups in case the sniper missed.

This night's going just swell.

They're here for Hood, and Dick makes a mental note to be pissed at him for that later. It's not technically his fault, but it's only fair that he get to be pissed at Hood for once.

Dick snags the number eleven ball from off the table and throws, hitting one of the goons square in the nose. It's not enough to knock him down, but it's enough to throw his aim off so the bar takes the bullets that were meant for Dick. There's more glass as an array of bottles and glasses shatter under fire, and he ducks back under the pool table.

He takes a half second to asses and plan his next move. From his place in hiding, calls, "Guys, can't we just talk about this?"

It's met with more gunfire. Dick rolls out of the way as a couple of bullets splinter the front leg of the table.

"Good talk," he says, lobbing another ball at them. It conks guy number two just above the eye, throws off his balance enough that he falls.

From there, Dick snatches the pool cues off the floor and starts towards them. He has to dodge out of the way of more gunfire, dropping to the ground and rolling forward. When he comes out of the roll, he brings both pool cues out to his sides, hitting guy one and three in the back of their knees. They drop with a satisfying thud, one of them firing a row of bullets into the ceiling as he falls.

Guy number two is up by then, and he just barely dodges a swipe from one of the cues. And Dick feels bad for whoever owns this bar, because the guy shoves him and Dick breaks a whole table with his fall.

He's back on his feet in an instant, but unfortunately so are those other two goons. And one of them is throwing chairs at him.

Dick ducks, and when he comes back up he slams the pool cue in his left hand into the guy's right side. The cue snaps in half, and wow, these things really weren't built for bar fights. It's shoddy workmanship, really.

Someone grabs him from behind and lifts as if to pull him away, and Dick uses it to kick both legs straight out at the guy in front of him. And basically, Dick's got this well in hand. He might've been happier if his night didn't include being shot at or thrown into tables, but he's got it covered.

That is, until there's a gun aimed at him and he kicks it, and the thing ends up shooting an old light bulb instead. Which is only a problem because the lightbulb sparks, and that spark happens to find it's way to something flammable, probably one of the liquors spilled along the floor earlier, and then the stupid place is on fire.

Crunchy's wasn't up to code in the first place, and the flames spread pretty quickly. Quickly enough that the three goons abandon their attempts to kill him in favor of saving their own skins.

There's nothing Dick can do, either, but join them in fleeing himself.

Outside the streets are a mess. It seems people had the sense to leave the bar when it was being shot at, but that's where their instincts for self preservation end. Dick was hoping to tail at least one of the three goons back to a hideout somewhere or get a chance to ask them some questions, but he quickly loses them in a crowd of spectators and the first two news vans on the scene.

He sprints for the bus stop, hopping up into the bench in the hopes of getting a view above the cars and the crowds. He spots guy number two just before he disappears into a back alley.

Dick starts after him, but by the time he rounds the corner it looks like someone else got to the guy first.

This night just keeps getting better and better.

A large, shadowy figure stands in the middle of the alley, instinctively facing Dick ready to fight when he rounds the corner. Behind him a smaller figure is fixing a pair of handcuffs onto the aforementioned goon.

Batman and Robin. Great.

Bruce drops his defensive stance once he has time to recognize that it's Dick standing at the mouth of the alley and not one of the other three thugs. Dick can hear the frown in his voice when Bruce says, "Nightwing?"

Right, he told Bruce he'd stay out of it, didn't he? He's not looking forward to this conversation.

"Well this is awkward."


	9. Penance

"What are you doing here?"

"Would you believe...grabbing a beer?"

Of course not. Bruce isn't that gullible, and Dick's not that lucky.

Bruce takes half a step towards Dick before stopping, and Tim looks up at the both of them from where he's squatting beside the guy from the bar, who honestly looks too unconscious for the handcuffs to be necessary. But he raises an eyebrow, as if to ask Dick what exactly is going on. As if Dick has any answers.

He offers a small wave in greeting and Tim mirrors it, no less curious.

"Right, and you just so happened to choose the place the Red Hood frequents to grab that beer?" Bruce says, and Dick can just hear the disapproving frown in his voice. "You agreed to stay away from this. You're both in danger here."

They're really not, not any more than usual.

Forgetting that Dick's been doubting whether or not Hood is even as dangerous as Bruce believes, he's not even here right now. He's not a threat to anyone smart enough to stay out of punching distance, and those three guys sent here to take him out are idiots.

"We're always in danger," Tim points out. It's not a complaint, just a statement of fact.

And it's true, they are. They always have been, even before they met Bruce, just to varying degrees. And sure, Bruce tells Tim to stay away wherever a known killer is involved, but that can only protect him for so long. The fact is, they'll always be in danger. And they, like Bruce, are trying to make sure that the same isn't true for anyone else.

Usually Bruce understands that. He trained them, after all. So the unspoken question in Tim's statement of fact is why this time is any different.

"You can't--Neither of you can be here right now," Bruce says, shooting a look back and forth between Dick and Tim. He's not shocked Tim wasn't invited either; the kid's determined though, he probably tailed Bruce here. His gaze settles back on Dick and he says, leaving little room for discussion, "I'll deal with this. Take Robin home. We'll talk about it later."

And he turns to walk away. Out of the alley or back towards the thug to see if he's awake enough for question, Dick's not really sure. It doesn't matter.

Because, as usual, he doesn't want to talk about the Red Hood. And Bruce is usually surprisingly good at making sure they feel listened to, him and Tim, and Jason while he was around. Bruce is usually willing to answer their questions. Try and understand where they're coming from. He's never been the 'Because I said so' type of guy. Which is what makes all of this so hard to understand.

He's so different about anything involving Hood, and Dick's not confident that Later will ever come. It's frustrating. Tim must be going in similar circles with him, too, because he scoffs and says petulantly, "You mean never."

But he gets up as if to follow Dick out of the alley anyway. Only Dick's not going anywhere. He says, "You can't keep us in the dark about this forever, B. We want to help."

"Fine. You want to talk right now?" Bruce asks. "Tell me what you're doing here."

"I did some digging. Red Hood has an informant in the organization," Dick answers, which is more or less honest. "I thought maybe she'd be willing to talk to me."

Bruce frowns. "Was she?"

Dick shrugs noncommittally. Says, "Not reliably. It was a set up."

"They knew you'd be there?" Tim asks.

"They thought I was Hood," Dick says, shaking his head.

Bruce looks at him for a second, calculating in a way that's discomforting when Dick's actively keeping secrets from him. He says, "So you went to crash his meeting with the informant. How did you know he wouldn't show?"

Because he's unconscious in Dick's apartment, duh.

That's not an answer he can give Bruce though, especially not right now. That's a whole other conversation he's not looking forward to having. And he's a quick-thinker, sure. Dick's lied his way out of plenty of situations before. He's just not used to doing it with Bruce. He can only hope it's convincing when he says, "I figured he'd be smart enough to tell the garage was a trap, so he probably wouldn't trust anyone he'd been talking to."

Bruce crosses his arms in front of him, a parody of a disapproving mother that might be funny if it were turned on anybody else. He says, "And if he decided to go after her for selling him out, instead of just staying away?"

"Then I'd have been there to stop him," Dick argues.

"See, this is what I'm talking about," Bruce says with a sigh. "This is how you get hurt. Or worse."

"So what? I'm just supposed to stay away from everything else happening in this city because the Red Hood might be there?"

"No, just the things you already know he's tied in with."

"It's part of the job. Robin said it already, we're always in danger."

"Not like this. Not from him," Bruce says. And the emotion that sneaks into his voice makes Dick unwilling to believe that it's just because he thinks Red Hood is more dangerous than their usual opponents. He shakes his head and says, "If either of you got hurt--If _he_ hurt you...I can't let that happen. I won't."

And the thing is, Dick can't leave it alone.

He gets it. Bruce doesn't want anything to happen to them. And all Dick's skepticisms about the Red Hood being the monster Gotham believes him to be won't change the fact that he's a killer. Without hesitation. Sometimes Dick even thinks Hood enjoys it.

If he deemed it necessary, he's probably not above killing them. Well, Tim's probably young enough to be safe, Hood's not willing to hurt a kid. But that's not the point. The point is Bruce has lost enough family already. And he still blames himself for what happened to Jason, Dick can tell. If something like that were to happen to Tim or Dick, Bruce would never forgive himself.

But it's not a one way street. Only Dick can't even begin to help Bruce with this weight he's carrying until he actually knows what it is. After a second, Dick says, "You said I deserved an explanation, B."

"And you'll get one. I promise," Bruce says, earnest. "Just not right now."

Dick can't help but ask, "Then when?"

Because being in between whatever secret Bruce and Hood are both keeping from him is getting old. Especially since whatever it is that happened between those two, the wounds are far from healed. He has a sneaking suspicion they cause more pain than Hood's busted leg ever could. 

"I don't know," Bruce tells him. He's frustrated, but Dick's not sure it's entirely with him. "I need time."

"Time? Time for what?"

"To bring him back," he snaps.

It's a rare occasion for Bruce to speak without thinking it out first, and Dick doesn't know where to go with a comment like that. He hears Tim ask, "Back from what?"

Bruce shakes his head, looking down at the pavement for and saying, "In. I meant bring him in."

Only Bruce doesn't misspeak.

Here Dick thought he was headed out tonight to find answers. All he's gotten so far is more questions. But he asks one he's had for awhile, one he's now sure Bruce knows the answer to.

"The Red Hood," Dick says. "Who is he?"

When Bruce answers, it seems more like a plea than an order. He just says, "Don't ask me that."

And Dick almost wishes that it were an order, because those are far easier to argue with. He somehow finds himself arguing anyway. Puffing out a frustrated breath and saying, "I'm getting kind of tired of playing this game with you."

They've been going in circles since last year, since the Red Hood showed up in Gotham. Dick asks a question, Bruce changes the subject. Dick asks a question, Bruce promises answers but doesn't actually give any. And Dick trusts him, of course he does. He trusts Bruce with his life. Trusts him to make the right call in an emergency, and to be there when no one else is.

But he doesn't trust him to ask for help when he needs it. That's something Bruce and Hood have in common, actually.

"It isn't a game."

"Then what are you doing, Bruce? What is this?"

"Penance."

Not for Dick. For him. 

And Bruce is cryptic and mysterious all the time, sure, but this is something else. This isn't him keeping details to himself because there's some delicate plan in place. It isn't him not telling Dick things because he wants Dick to learn to find the facts on his own. It's guilt. Plain and simple.

And it'll eat him alive if he can't bring Hood back. But Dick's got no clue what that even means.

Dick takes in a breath and lets it go.

"Okay," he says, offering a small nod. He turns to Tim and says, "Alright, let's go."

Tim opens his mouth like he's about to argue, but he reconsiders before he actually can. He shoots one last look over at Bruce, almost concerned, before moving to follow Dick back out of the alley.

* * *

Dick makes sure Tim gets back to the manor like he's supposed to, but he doesn't go in himself. After all, Bruce isn't the only one who's promised explanations to people, and Dick can't risk bumping into Alfred just yet. Not until he's got more answers of his own.

Of course, when he makes it to his apartment it's just in time to wonder whether he should've brought Alfred with him.

He's just made it to the front door when he hears a crash. One of the I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up variety. Dick gets the keys in the lock and swings the door open as fast as he can, stepping inside. Everything's still in place it looks like. And Hood's supposed to still be sleeping, but if there's not an intruder it must mean that crash was Hood.

It's possible Dick got the dose wrong.

He's torn between worry and irritation, and he supposes he'll have to make up his mind when he figures out what the hell's going on in the other room.

There hasn't been another sound since the initial crash, which probably isn't a good sign. Dick b-lines for the next room, flicking the hall light switch on as he opens the door.

For a second he panics because Hood's not there.

The next second he hears the gasp, and realizes Hood's on the floor, and this is a different kind of panic. Because whatever's happening right now is not a result of the busted leg.

He drops down next to Hood to assess the damage, and the best he can figure, Hood fell again. Stubborn bastard probably tried to go for a walk the second he woke up, just to prove a point. Only this time when he fell, it messed that rib up--just like Dick's been trying to warn him about, but he can save the 'I told you so' for later. Right now, Hood looks like a fish out of water on his apartment floor. Gulping for air, desperate, and coming up short.

"Hood? Talk to me, what's wrong?" Dick asks, putting a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to steady him.

It's probably a hopeless question, it doesn't seem much like Hood can actually talk right now. He's just spasming on the floor. Dick doesn't really have a word for the sound he's making, something between a wheeze and a gasp. But Hood spares the energy to throw his shoulder away from Dick's hand, which is maybe a good sign, maybe not.

"C- Can't-" Hood says, gesturing vaguely towards his lungs. "Breathe. I ca-n't-"

"Okay, something's collapsing your lung," Dick says, moving to get up from the floor.

Hood doesn't even seem aware that Dick's leaving his side, too absorbed in pulling in breath after useless breath.

Dick bolts the first aid kit he keeps under the bathroom sink and makes it back to Hood's side in probably record time. He kneels down on the ground, yanking the kit open and rooting around for the tool he's looking for.

Hood's turning blue by the time Dick finds it. A hollow needle.

He pulls Hood's zip-up to the side, and hastily runs a sanitary wipe over his skin before plunging the needle into Hood's chest. He pulls back on the syringe attached to the needle, to draw the excess air out.

After a second, Hood's gasping slows down. Becomes less desperate, until all of a sudden he's breathing like an exhausted runner instead of a man who nearly suffocated.

Dick rocks back to sitting on the floor, letting out a heavy breath of his own and shooting a weary look up at his ceiling. He can't help but wonder what he must've done wrong, that he's got to deal with this asshole trying to kill himself every few hours in Dick's apartment as punishment.

Hood breaks the silence with a small groan that devolves into a chuckle, and he says, "Guess you were right about that rib after all."

"I'm glad you think it's funny," Dick says, flipping the first aid kit closed once more.

He fishes his phone out of his pocket and, after a moment's hesitation, shoots a quick text Alfred's way. Explaining the idiotic stunt Hood just pulled and the rib and asking for some medical advice. Alfred's answer, quick and simple, is to offer to come over. He needs a look at the ribs to see what the damage is before he can advise Dick on moving Hood off the floor.

Dick wishes momentarily that he'd never gone to that parking garage.

He puts his hand back on Hood's shoulder, to stop him from sitting up when he tries to, and Hood grabs his wrist with a grip like a vice. Like a warning. Dick rolls his eyes and says simply, "Your broken rib just collapsed your lung, you think moving around is the best idea right now, Hood?"

"Why should I listen to you, again?" Hood says. And there it is. Now that he's not almost dying, he's pissed. "Last time I trusted you, you fucking drugged me. Bitch move, by the way."

He goes to sit up again, and Dick presses his shoulder back into the ground to stop him. It's a little too easy. But Hood can be pissed all he wants, just as long as he does it without making another injury worse. It's like herding cats, except the cats keep trying to die on his apartment floor and calling him an asshole for saving them.

"I only did it so you wouldn't pull a stunt like _this_ while I was gone," Dick says.

"It's for my own good, is that what you're saying? Typical fucking bats."

"You're gonna tell me I was wrong? Look at you," Dick says, gesturing towards him.

Hood makes one more attempt at sitting back up, only Dick doesn't even have to stop him this time. He just grits his teeth and drops his head back onto the floor. Which isn't enough to stop him from threatening, "You better hope my leg stays busted forever, 'cause the second I can, I'm gonna kick your fucking ass."

"Did you even stop to think what would've happened if I hadn't got back in time? You could've died, Hood."

"Yeah, what d'you care?" Hood snaps. Moves his right hand up to join left at Dick's wrist, throwing Dick's hand off of him. Dick lets him. It doesn't look like he's trying to get up again. He laughs, icy and cruel, and asks, "Why am I even here? And don't give me some crap about the magic of friendship or me having intel or whatever, because it's bullshit and you know it. I have been nothing but trouble for you, so why keep me around?"

Dick's ready to be angry. He feels like he's supposed to be, with the way Hood's yelling. That, and the fact that what he's saying is infuriating, because it's true.

He's not here entirely because of Dick's ideas about helping people. He's definitely not here because he knows more than Dick about this organization, the thought didn't even occur to Dick until Hood was already here.

And, most importantly, he has been nothing but trouble. Too stubborn to recognize that he's hurt. That or he just doesn't care, maybe he has a death wish or something. And Dick's lying to his family for this guy now. Going to bars and getting shot at for him. Well, that last one happens a lot in his life anyway, but that's besides the point.

Dick's been thinking about the answer to this question for awhile now. He sighs and says, "Hood, it's my fault your here. You shouted at me to move, but I thought...I thought you just wanted me out of the way of your shot. Next thing I knew, you were pushing me out of the way of a collapse."

"I get it," Hood says, clearing his throat. "I'm your guilty conscience. Boo hoo."

It's almost a skill, how he can manage to sound so insulting without actually muttering an insult.

Dick runs a frustrated hand through his hair, shooting a look away at the window across the room. He says, "It could've killed you, Hood."

"It would've killed you," Hood shoots back.

"What's your point? It's better you than me?"

Hood offers a half of a shrug, as if to agree. That is his point. And the complete shock or pity or unworthy or whatever it is that thought stirs up must show on Dick's face, because Hood quickly adjusts to saying, "Better my leg than your fucking life."

And since when does the Red Hood value anyone's life. Since when does he value Dick's.

"Your math is shit, man," Dick tells him. Which isn't fair, because Dick thinks he might make the same call if their positions were reversed, but that's not the point. He shakes his head and says, "Look, I'm sorry I lied. And I'm sorry you got hurt 'cause of me. I'm just trying to make sure you don't get hurt worse before you can get better."

Hood scoffs. "Yeah, well keep your fucking guilt to yourself. I've got enough problems without dealing with more assholes blaming themselves for shit that's not their fault."

It's abrasive and cold, but Dick's got a feeling it's as close to an olive branch as he's going to get. It's Hood brushing past his apology, but he heard it. It's Hood saying he doesn't blame Dick for what happened to him. And frankly, Dick's not totally sure if that makes him feel better or worse.

He'll have to figure it out later, because right then, there's a single, crisp knock at the door.


	10. Hail Mary

It's just one quiet knock, but Hood reacts like someone's about to kick in the door. Dick's once again trying to stop him from getting up, only this time Hood's looking for a fight. He throws a punch aimed right at Dick's face, and Dick just catches his fist with an open hand. Once he does, he pins Hood's wrist to the floor, and with a huff Hood asks, "Who is that?"

"Easy, okay," Dick says, putting his free hand out palm first in what he hopes is a placating gesture. "He's a friend."

"Yeah, your friends aren't usually my friends, birdbrain," Hood says, matter of fact.

"This one is," Dick insists. "He helped me fix you up after the garage. Remember him?"

If the frown on Hood's face is any indication, he doesn't. Which is confirmed after a second, when Hood shakes his head and says, "I don't remember much past the stairwell. Someone else was there?"

It makes sense Hood doesn't remember. Dick knows from experience that pain has a way of making a memory hazy, and he's sure the blood loss and the way Hood was slipping in and out of consciousness didn't do much to help with that. A guy has a building dropped on top of him, usually he's not stressing the details until a little while later.

Only Hood seems less comfortable with the gaps in his head. Even more so with the idea that there was another person involved in helping him.

Dick says, "No, he was on the phone."

Hood's frown only deepens, but after a second he's able to grab at something, because he asks, "British guy?"

Dick just nods, and either Hood doesn't like what clicks in his memory or he's just feeling antisocial as ever, but Hood tenses. Like a stray dog, unsure whether to fight or flee from the human on the street.

"You can trust him," Dick says, although he's not totally positive of that. If he can't come up with a compelling explanation before Alfred leaves, he's not sure how much longer they'll have before Bruce knows what's going on. He adds, "He can help with your ribs."

"I don't care. No."

And Dick's really got no way of telling if that shakiness in Hood's breathing is thanks to the lung problem they just dealt with, or some sort of nerves. Because the wary look he shoots at the doorway makes Dick think something's up, and it's not just that he doesn't trust Dick's friends. Maybe he just doesn't like new people. Maybe it's the sudden intrusion in what he thought was a sanctuary--and boy does Dick not know what to think of the Red Hood thinking of his home as a safe space.

But whatever the reason, the idea that Alfred's standing out in the hallway waiting to be let in freaks Hood right out.

He covers whatever that split second of vulnerability was, though, the same way he covers the rest of them. When Dick moves to answer the door, Hood snatches his forearm before he can so much as stand. Snarls, "If you open that door, I will shoot you in the fucking face."

"Yeah, this friend doesn't really like swearing," Dick says, less than phased by now with Hood's threats. It's not like he'll be able to follow through for a good long while. "So try to tone it down when I let him in."

Dick yanks his arm free and gets up off the floor, thankfully without anymore trouble from Hood.

He makes it to the front door just as Alfred's gotten impatient enough for one more knock. And he opens the door expecting to be asked about that explanation he owes, but Alfred's a little more professional than that. First thing's first, he wants to know about Hood's medical condition. That's the topic of the week, apparently.

When they make it back to Dick's bedroom, Hood's still right where Dick left him.

Alfred shoots a look over at Dick before approaching Hood, and when he does Dick's got half a mind to hold him back. It's not something he thought about when Hood was maybe suffocating to death on his floor, but the guy's dangerous. And Alfred can handle himself better than most people expect, but maybe just letting him walk right up to the Red Hood isn't the best thing for them to be doing right now.

Only his worry proves useless. Hood doesn't immediately attack Alfred.

"It's my understanding you've been having some difficulties with a broken rib?" Alfred says.

Predictably, Hood answers with a huff, "I'm fine."

"Yes, in my experience most people who have a lung collapse are perfectly fine," Alfred says, with his own particular brand of sarcasm. It's a lot funnier when Dick's not on the receiving end.

"Golden boy over there already fixed that," Hood says, nodding towards Dick. It's oddly personal when he says, "You're not needed."

And Alfred's definitely dealt with too many stubborn vigilante types for that to stop him. He squats down on the floor next to Hood, and Hood jerks away. Scrambles backwards until his shoulder smacks into the nightstand behind him.

It's not like all the times Dick's gotten too close. Of course Hood's smart enough to know he's trapped, but so far his approach to that has been to take the offense. Dick's got the bruises to prove it. With Alfred it's defense. He's got his arms out in front of him, hands in loose fists, but it's just to keep Alfred back. Dick doesn't think he'll actually hit him; and he's confident in that, because if it were Dick, Hood would've swung by now.

Alfred puts his hands up, but he's not surrendering. He says, "I merely wish to help."

"Why?" Hood asks sharply.

This again. Dick leans against the doorway and says, "Not everyone trying to help you has an ulterior motive, Hood."

"An injury like that is painful," Alfred says simply. "If left untreated, that pain will only increase. Provided your lung doesn't collapse again--"

"Oh, you're worried about my safety, is that it?" Hood says, angry. He shakes his head and spits, "It's a little late for that, Alfred."

Dick pushes himself off the doorway, taking half a step forward, although he's not sure where he's going.

Alfred shoots a look at Dick over his shoulder, a silent question. But Dick's just as thrown as Alfred is. Hood's not supposed to know his name. Dick was calling him Thaddeus on the phone, which Hood apparently doesn't even remember. And if the way Hood shifts in his place on the floor says anything, he didn't mean to use Alfred's name at all.

Alfred looks back at him and asks, "You know me?"

If Dick thought Hood felt trapped before, it's nothing compared to this. Now that he's let...whatever this is slip.

He looks back and forth between Alfred and the doorway, like he's contemplating an escape route. Only there isn't one. After a second, he answers lamely, "No."

"No?" Dick echoes in disbelief, eyebrows raised.

Hood's cornered animal look only deepens. Dick can't quite tell if it's anger or fear in Hood's face, and frankly, he doesn't think Hood's sure either. What the Red Hood has to be afraid of is another question entirely.

Alfred has a little more patience with the blatant lie. He prompts, "And yet you know my name?"

"Lucky guess," Hood says.

And he has to know they won't believe that, but they don't have to. They just have to get that he's not answering. He knows who Alfred is, but that's not something he meant to reveal. Which means he's not saying how anytime soon. Dick has to wonder how much else Hood knows that he's not admitting to.

But apparently he has to wonder in the kitchen instead, because Alfred's saying, "Well, let's take a look at those ribs, shall we? Nightwing can make us some tea."

"I'm not--" Dick starts to argue.

"Chamomile will do," Alfred says.

Dick's not sure what he was going to argue exactly anyway, so he shrugs and turns to leave. He doesn't exactly want to leave Alfred alone with Hood, but he also doesn't really expect Hood to hurt him. He's an asshole and he's apparently been keeping more secrets than Dick initially thought, but he's not the lunatic people keep saying he is. Alfred should be safe.

The kitchen's quiet. Dick flips a light on and grabs a couple of mugs and a kettle down from the cupboard.

For a second he tries to listen for whatever conversation Alfred and Hood are having in the other room. He can hear their voices, but not well enough to make out actual words, just to know there's talking. With how stubborn Hood can be, he doubts there's anything to hear anyway. He's not saying anything he doesn't want to.

Dick runs a hand through his hair and moves to the sink, fills the kettle up with water. Almost overfills it because he's not paying attention.

Bruce knows the Red Hood. Knows him well, because Dick's never seen Bruce get like this over anyone else. And now the Red Hood knows Alfred.

And maybe someone like Hood knows Bruce through Batman. Maybe they worked together on something, or Bruce saved him or someone he know or whatever. But if he knows Alfred he knows Bruce through something more than just Batman. Dick might even know him.

His conversation with Bruce in the alleyway plays through his head again. The way Bruce seemed to specify that he can't let _Hood_ hurt him or Tim. Like it would be worse somehow if it were him and not some other Gotham villain.

He puts the kettle on the stove and turns the heat up, running through the conversation again in the hopes of realizing something. Instead he realizes that his window is open by the fire escape. He's got a hand halfway to the escrima sticks still tucked away in the inside of his jacket before he spots Tim, sitting in the armchair in the living room.

"What the hell? You're supposed to be at the manor," Dick says.

"So's Alfred," Tim points out. Of course. He followed Alfred here. Nosey little shit.

Dick pinches the bridge of his nose and says with a sigh, "You can't be here right now, Tim."

Tim snorts. "You sound just like him."

"I'm not kidding."

It's not that he thinks Hood's a threat, not right now and not to Tim. But it's been tough enough convincing Hood to accept even a little help. Dick might not know what the history is, but if he catches wind anyone else who might tell Bruce he's here, Hood's gonna flip. And he'll hurt himself doing it. They're taking a chance already with Alfred.

"Bruce isn't talking to me," Tim says, and it's tough for Dick to send him away when he says it like that, it really is. "And since when does Alfred need to sneak around?"

"Since," Dick starts, and trails off. He knows how Tim feels. Wanting answers and being denied them at every turn. And Tim's gonna figure it out on his own anyway, so Dick doesn't see much point in lying to him. He caves and says, "Since the Red Hood is in the other room. He's hurt and I've been helping him."

Tim's eyes widen, and he moves to get up out of the chair. "So you know who he is?"

"No," Dick says. "No, but he knows Alfred, apparently."

Tim frowns, and Dick doesn't blame him. "Do you think you know him?"

"I'd probably have noticed if I did, wouldn't I?"

But that's not totally true. Maybe all the good Dick's been trying to see in Hood has less to do with that moral code he's convinced himself that Hood has, and more to do with some sort of subconscious familiarity. Maybe he does know him, and he just doesn't know it yet. He doesn't want to think about it.

Dick nods towards Tim and asks, "You eat dinner yet, Jr. Detective? And don't say coffee counts."

"It does," Tim says, taking a seat at one of the stools at the breakfast bar.

"Okay. Tonight's specials are...Froot Loops or pop tarts. What'll it be?"

Tim looks like he's thinking about arguing, but after a second he asks, "What flavor pop tarts?"

"Blueberry."

"Froot Loops please."

Dick snags a bowl and the cereal box from their own respective cupboards, retrieves a carton of milk from the fridge. He figures he can take his time here. The kettle isn't boiling yet and besides, he's pretty sure the tea was just an excuse for Alfred to get him out of the room.

So Tim eats and eventually the water boils, and Dick goes to pour out a couple of mugs. Only before he can, he hears footsteps. And then there's Alfred standing in the kitchen, looking frustrated and drawn.

"Master Tim," Alfred says, disapproving but not surprised.

Tim looks guiltily up from where he's slurping the leftover milk from the cereal bowl, and it's anyone's guess as to whether Alfred disapproves of being followed here, or Tim's horrible table etiquette. Dick clears his throat and asks, "Hood?"

He keeps the question open. He's not sure what he's asking.

"He refuses to take anything for the pain, but give him an ice pack and make sure he keeps breathing normally, and the ribs should heal just fine," Alfred says, deliberately avoiding the other topic on the table. He goes to wash his hands at the sink, and Dick spots a small fleck of blood just above his wrist. Alfred says, "He also tore a couple of stitches."

"He likes to do that," Dick says flatly. "You know who he is?"

Alfred keeps his gaze on the sink, where any trace of blood is already gone, but he keeps washing his hands. He keeps his voice measured when he says, "I have my suspicions. He refuses to confirm anything, of course."

"And?" Tim asks, impatient.

Alfred switches the tap back off and finally turns to look at the both of them.

All of a sudden Dick feels bad for pressing him. Alfred's always had a gift for making people feel guilty, but this time it isn't even on purpose. It's just one look, but it's somehow tired, and apologetic, and sad all at once. And Dick was so preoccupied in the Red Hood knowing Alfred that he didn't once stop to consider Alfred knowing him.

"And," Alfred says. "I don't think it's my place to discuss with either of you."

Either of you might or might not imply he thinks he can discuss it with someone else. And Dick just has to be safe, so he says, "Can you wait to talk to Bruce until he's better? He's only letting me help him as long as Bruce stays out of it."

Alfred nods. Then he turns to Tim and says, "Then he'd better not catch wind that a Robin was here. Come along, Master Tim, it's time for us to go."

Thankfully, Tim doesn't argue. They exchange their goodbyes, but the conversation doesn't feel finished, and then Alfred and Tim go.

Dick stands in the kitchen for a minute after they've gone. Now that his apartment's, for the most part, empty again the exhaustion from the night's events finally starts to catch up with him.

He thinks he might turn in early. But first, he goes back to the bedroom. Pokes his head in the doorway.

Hood's sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard. Like he knew Dick was coming back to talk to him. Maybe he did. It's looking like he knows Dick better than Dick's been thinking he does, anyway.

One arm is wrapped around his abdomen, cradling his ribs, and his eyes are shut but he's awake. He'll be awake, by the looks of it, for a very long time. He takes slow, deep breaths and if anything Dick knows about broken ribs holds up to be true, each of those breaths is probably agony. Any trace of which vanishes once Hood notices Dick standing in the doorway.

"I, uh, brought you an ice pack," Dick says, holding it up. "And some painkillers, if you want them."

Hood scoffs, looking away, towards the window. He answers coldly, "You expect me to take 'em? After the shit you pulled?"

Dick doesn't try to fight the pang of guilt. Instead, he offers, "They're from Alfred. Not me. If that helps."

"It doesn't," Hood says.

Right. Alfred wasn't even supposed to know Hood's here. Dick's not helping his case bringing it up. He steps further into the room, saying conversationally, "So, how do you know him?"

The casual approach does nothing to make this conversation any easier.

"Fuck off," Hood tells him, not bothering to look away from the window.

Dick holds the ice pack out towards Hood, and Hood finally looks away from the city line outside in order to eye Dick's hand warily. Dick's not sure how many answers the question will actually get him, but he asks, "Do you know me, too?"

Hood takes the ice pack, and for a split second Dick thinks it's a victory, until he throws the thing across the room. It hits the wall and knocks an old photo of Dick and the rest of the titans off the wall. The motion does nothing for Hood's ribs, and he swears under his breath. Leans forward as if that'll help but from the looks of it, it really doesn't.

"I needed to get a new frame for that anyway," Dick jokes, and Hood just. Glares. Dick puts his hands up and says, "I get it. I'll fuck off."

And he turns to go, because as much as he wants answers, tonight's probably not the best night to ask for them. He makes it about two steps before Hood says, "Wait. We need to talk."

"What about?"

"You need to drop me back off at my safehouse," Hood says. Almost reluctant, but it's difficult to read. He shakes his head and says, "I can't trust you, and you sure as hell can't trust me. So I'm leaving."

He says he can't trust Dick like before tonight he thought that he could. And he says Dick can't trust him, not entirely as an accusation. It's partly an admission.

Which is when Dick realizes that the Red Hood's not penance, not for him or Bruce or anyone. But Dick was his hail mary.

"You're not leaving," Dick says.

"Are you gonna stop me?" Hood challenges.

And it's not like Hood can even fight him on this, not in this state, but that's not why Dick's stopping him. It was already Dick's fault he's here, and now if Hood decides to leave, and gets himself killed trying to do this on his own, that'll be Dick's fault too. He doesn't even know who this kid is, and he can't seem to stop letting him down.

Dick moves to sit at the foot of the bed, looking away from Hood so he doesn't spook him. He says, "Look. I'll stop asking questions, if that's your problem. But I'm not taking you somewhere I know you'll be alone. Not until you can at least walk."

"That's sweet," Hood says, bitter. "The questions aren't the only problem, assmunch. Who else was here?"

"Who else?"

"I heard three voices. Yours, Alfred's, and...?"

Ah, crap. Dick thinks about lying, but he can't come up with a good and besides, he has a feeling Hood would be able to tell. So after a second he relents and says, "Robin. I didn't invite him, he followed Alfred."

"The Replacement? Awesome," Hood says, punching the mattress at his side, and he's too angry to bother hiding the wince.

The way Hood sees it, it's a given that Tim's going to go running to tell Bruce where he is. Which does tell Dick one thing, and that's Hood might know Alfred, might know him, but he hasn't met Tim yet. It's something Dick can ponder over later, because right now he's repeating skeptically, "The Replacement?"

"He's what, Robin number three?"

"Well, yeah, but he's not a replacement."

"Really?" Hood says, tilting his head to the side. He smiles but it's cold. "I heard the last one died. How long did it take Batman to pick a new one, huh? A few days? Or did he wait a whole week out of respect for the dead."

"It wasn't like that," Dick says, quietly.

Hood scoffs, like he knows anything about what they went through after Jason died. It occurs to Dick that maybe he does. Before he can wander down that road, Hood says, "It was exactly like that and you know it! Batman doesn't care about you or that new kid, just his crusade."

Dick bristles. "I don't know what you think you know--"

"I know that we're expendable," Hood snaps.

"We?" Dick says.

Hood starts to answer before cutting himself off, leaning his head back against the board. He says to the ceiling, "I thought you were gonna stop asking questions."

"You did say they weren't the problem," Dick says.

"Yeah, well you won't like the answers," Hood says, slumping a little lower, and hissing out a breath.

Dick gets up to leave, but he can't. He turns back and asks, "Will you just tell me how you knew him?"

"Alfred?"

"No," Dick says. "Jason."

Hood's head snaps forward to look at him. "What did you just say?"

"You knew him, right?"

Dick figures that's the only way Hood gets so pissed about Tim. The only way he's convinced himself that Bruce doesn't care about them.

"Leave it alone," Hood says, a warning.

"Come on," Dick says, because he doesn't know how to leave it alone. "You can talk to me, Hood."

"Leave. It. Alone."

"Just tell me."

"Tell you what? What do you think it's gonna fix?"

"So you did know him, then?"

At the very least, it's confirmation. And it won't fix anything. Nothing Hood can say is going to bring Jason back. Or erase everything they went through losing him.

But Dick wasn't a very good brother when Jason was around. They didn't talk as much as he wishes they did now. He doesn't know anyone from Jason's life outside of Alfred and Bruce. So if Hood knows him...Maybe it's something. Maybe he can help Hood where he couldn't help Jason.

"Stop it," Hood says. "Fucking stop asking."

"He was a brother to me," Dick says, earnest. "If you knew him, don't I deserve to know?"

Hood shakes his head. "I already told you, you won't like the answer. Just leave it alone."

"I can't."

"Fine!" Hood spits. "You really want answers? Fine, fucking fine. You got 'em."

Dick opens his mouth to say something, thank him maybe although he's not sure for what, Hood hasn't said anything yet.

And Hood's not saying anything. He just reaches a hand up and yanks the hoodie back, away from his face. It's so far beyond the explanation Dick was expecting, but he doesn't say anything to stop him when Hood puts a hand up to the domino on his face.

The Red Hood takes off his mask.

And he just sits there and looks at Dick, and waits for a reaction. And Dick doesn't know whether to punch him or hug him, so he sits there too, frozen.

"Jason?"


	11. Tequila, a Time Machine, and a Glock

Dick just stares while his brain plays catch up.

Trying to explain how this person can be looking at him with Jason's face. Running through every conversation or interaction he's had with the Red Hood up until that point. Looking for signs he should've noticed, or signs he did notice but just couldn't explain at the time. For a second, he even wonders if Jason has a lookalike. Or a twin brother he never bothered to mention.

There's a thousand things he should probably say, but his words betray him and all he manages to say, blinking dumbly, is, "You died."

"Didn't take," the person in front of him says.

Bitter, like tasting red wine for the first time, and cynical, and so very Jason.

He doesn't remember making the decision, but in the next instant Dick's hugging him. It occurs to him it might've been the wrong choice, too, because Jason tenses. His breath catches, like he's expecting an attack. But before Dick can realize it enough to make himself let go, Jason's hands come up, and he's hugging him right back.

Hugging might not be the right word, more like clinging. Like a lifeline. His hands are fisted in the fabric of Dick's shirt like a scared little kid. Which is fine, because Dick's half convinced that if he lets go, when he steps away it won't be Jason sitting there anymore.

But the moment passes as quickly as it had appeared, and Jason shoves him away abruptly. Saying, "Get off'a me. Jeez, you forget about the busted rib?"

"Right, sorry," Dick says, hastily backing away.

He sits down at the foot of the bed. It feels far enough away to give Jason space, and he's not going much farther.

And there's a million things he needs to say, to ask, but he's not saying any of it. Whether that's because there's too much and he wouldn't know where to start, or because he's thinking maybe there's something Jason wants to say.

The silence stretches on for what feels like forever before Dick realizes Jason isn't going to say anything. It occurs to him Jason wasn't even originally going to tell Dick who he was; he only did it on impulse, out of frustration or anger. But after a minute, Jason clears his throat and says irritably, "You just gonna sit there all night? If you have questions, ask them."

Despite the let's-get-this-over-with approach, it's an invitation to stay and talk. If Jason wanted him to leave he'd just say so. It was true back then, and Dick's heard enough of it the past few days to know it remains true now.

Invitation or not, he doesn't know where to start.

"How long have you been back?" Dick asks, and Jason just huffs, looking back out towards the window. Impatient, or maybe regretting agreeing to questions. "Or, is back the right word? I mean, you did die, right? it wasn't some...I dunno, trick?"

He doesn't mean to ask like that, but from his perspective it's a fair question. People don't usually get brutally murdered only to wind up sitting in his apartment six years later. Gotham might be weird, but it's not that weird. 

But when he asks the question, Jason's gone. Replaced with the person Dick's been dealing with for the past three days. Replaced with Hood.

"Hell of an April Fool's," he says, with a derisive scoff. "Yeah, I died you fucking ass."

"Really, I'm the ass?" Dick half shouts before he can think better of it.

He realizes he should've know this was Jason sooner. No one can get on his nerves quite so quickly as family. 

Dick pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes out a slow, steadying breath before he can actually say anything that'll make this worse. He shakes his head and asks again, "How long? How long have you been back?"

At least a year, he knows that much for sure. A whole year and he didn't reach out once. Not to mention the past few days. He could've said something at any time, and he's been choosing not to.

It's not like he wants to be mad at Jason. The kid just came back from the dead, Dick's pretty sure he's supposed to be happy. Relieved, overjoyed. Only he can't be, because he didn't _just_ come back from the dead. He's been back. If the way he's evading the question is any sort of sign, he's been back for a long time.

"I'm not back," Jason says with a one shouldered shrug. Like it's the simplest thing in the world.

"What do you mean?"

He hums. "Why don't you ask Batman?"

"I'm asking y--" Dick starts, before trailing off. He realizes, "Bruce knew the whole time. Why wouldn't he say anything?"

"Because he doesn't care," Jason says, like he's stating the obvious. He adds, more to himself than to Dick, "Hell, he probably wishes I stayed dead."

Dick's opening his mouth to argue before he can even think of an argument. He doesn't exactly feel like defending the guy who lied to him for a year, but Jason needs to know Bruce still cares. Dick says, "He wants to help you."

He's sure, now, that's what Bruce meant when he said he needed time to bring the Red Hood _back_. Because Bruce knew it was Jason. He also knew what Dick's trying not to worry about yet, which is that this isn't their Jason. The troubled but ultimately good kid that they knew is long gone. He's lost his way. Jason must see it too. Maybe that's why he hadn't said anything about his identity sooner.

"He wants to help me," Jason repeats, laughing.

As if anything about this screwed up situation is funny.

"Alright, what happened last year?" Dick asks, because he can't get around asking any more.

"It's not about last year," Jason says, and Dick almost believes him. "Bruce never cared. It just took dying for me to figure it out, but Bruce doesn't care. Not about you, or me, or even whatever poor son of a bitch he got to replace me."

"You don't mean that."

"Like hell I don't," he says, loud enough that Dick's sure his neighbors will be complaining tomorrow. But something tells him that the way Jason's breath seems to shake isn't because of the pain in his ribs. Not entirely. He doesn't sound like he wants to know when he asks, "Did you guys even look for me? Or did you just cut your losses and pick up that new kid?"

Dick could explain that Tim actually found them and not the other way around, but then, he doesn't think it'll do much good. He doesn't know if anything will do much good, if Jason's willing to believe that they didn't even look for him.

"Of course we looked for you," Dick says, as earnest as he can. "How can you even need to ask?"

"It's kinda hard not to."

Dick shakes his head. He moves to put a reassuring hand out, but freezes and pulls it back before he can so much as touch Jason. Says, "We did everything we could to get you back, Jason, you have to believe me."

Jason rolls his eyes.

He should've known better. Telling Jason that he has to do something has never gotten him to do it before. Dick scrubs a hand over his face and tries to think of something he can say that'll get the point across. Jason's convinced himself that his death didn't even matter to them, and it's really no wonder he's been such an ass the whole time he's been stuck here, relying on Dick for help.

Dick starts, "You really think we'd just give up on family?"

And that's about as far as he gets, because Jason cuts him off before he can say anything else. He smacks the helmet at his side onto the floor and all but shouts, "We were _never_ a family. Don't start acting like you care now."

"Why is it so damn hard for you to believe that we care about you?"

He doesn't mean to sound so angry when he says it. He's not even sure who he's angry at; Jason for being so stubborn and blind, Bruce for not doing more. Life for putting them in this position in the first place.

But Jason looks Dick straight in the eye and answers simply, "How many people did Joker kill, after me? Hm? How many more people suffered because of that piece of shit?"

For a second, Dick thinks he's changing the subject.

Then he realizes that it's not a question. It's an accusation.

Suddenly he remembers something Bruce said, about Hood trying to make him kill Joker. Remembers Hood's--that is, Jason's remark from before. About how just saving people isn't enough, because they'll never feel safe again. Knowing the person who hurt them is still out there. All his talk about not letting the bag guys hurt anybody else, ever again.

They let him down the instant Joke took another life. The worst part is, Dick can't even remember when that was. Who it was.

"We're not killers," he says weakly. It's not a good enough answer, even he knows that.

"No, not directly," Jason says, a small nod. Like he's conceding a point. Then he sneers and says, "You just let it happen, and then pat yourself on the back for being the heroes. I mean, how many lives is your moral fucking high ground worth, Dick?"

"That's not fair."

He barks a sardonic laugh. Says, "Yeah, get used to it."

"Jason--"

"Don't you get it? Jason is dead!" Jason spits, slamming his fist into the mattress at his side. "He died scared, and alone, and in pain. I'm just what's left. I got brought back to a world that didn't even want me. That had already _replaced me._ So don't fucking talk to me about not fair."

His voice cracks at least twice, threatening tears.

Dick doesn't know what to say exactly, but he's halfway to telling Jason they could never replace him before he decides against it.

Their intentions never mattered. The fact that Jason was never replaceable doesn't matter. Not when he looks at it from Jason's perspective. Or, as close as he can get to Jason's perspective, because Dick can't tell what's going on inside his head right now.

And the two words don't even begin to cover it, but Dick says, "I'm sorry."

"I don't need an apology," Jason says firmly. Shoving any vulnerability back under the surface, like shoving the trash deeper into the can because changing the bag is too much effort.

"What do you need?"

Dick doesn't think Jason's even asked himself the question in a long time. He says, "A bottle of tequila, a time machine, and a Glock."

"Not in that order, I hope," Dick says. And he catches the threat of a smile no matter how Jason tries to hide it. After a second he says, gently, because it needs to be said, "Hey. I do care, little wing. I never stopped caring. You're family, whether you like it or not."

And that, it seems, is the breaking point.

Jason looks up at him like he's about to argue before cutting himself off. Torn somewhere between believing him and denying it. Only when he opens his mouth to speak, the words don't come. He just lets out a quiet sob, and brings his hands up, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes.

It's been a long time since Dick didn't know what to do when someone was crying.

The last time it happened was probably Jason, actually.

He's never liked crying in front of people. Or showing any emotion, for that matter, that might be construed as weakness. It's why he always got angry instead. Pushed people away, so they wouldn't see it. It's something that took Dick forever to recognize enough that it stopped working.

The first time he saw Jason really cry was after almost a year of knowing him. Jason actually took a swing at him for trying to tell him it was 'okay.' Said he didn't need to be patronized, or something like that. Dick remembers because he got a black eye for his troubles. In retrospect, not much has really changed.

He's pulled back to the present when Jason takes in a shaky breath.

Dick shuffles closer, leaving enough time for Jason to tell him to back off if that's what he wants. And when he doesn't, Dick hugs him again.

It's not going to fix anything, but it doesn't have to. He just wants Jason to know that he's here.

And Jason let's Dick hug him. He actually squeezes back hard enough that Dick worries for his ribs. Like this time it's Jason who's worried that, if he lets go, then when he steps away he'll be alone again.

"It's okay," Dick assures him, even though it's not. They'll make it okay. He's not sure how, but they will. Jason just holds him tighter, which maybe means it's working, so Dick says, "It's gonna be okay. Promise."

After a minute, when his sobs have subsided into quiet sniffles, Jason says, "Don't fucking patronize me."

Dick's not sure how much he actually thinks it's patronizing, considering Jason doesn't make any move to let go when he says it. So Dick can't help but bring it up, saying, "Or what? You'll punch me again?"

Jason laughs into his shoulder. A genuine laugh, which is rare enough for him, but it's the kind that means Jason must also remember the incident Dick's referring to. The kind that means he must also remember the old Jason, too. And maybe he'll find his way back or maybe he won't, but for right now that's got to be enough.

"Don't tempt me."


	12. Burning Bridges

Dick was sort of thinking that the knowledge that Jason is actually alive and, mostly, well in the next room might help with nightmares. As it turns out, that was just a little too optimistic.

He dreams of the parking garage again, with the floors cracking and the ceiling coming down above him. Only this time it's obvious that it's Jason trapped underneath that block of cement. The Red Hood isn't even there, it's just Jason. Young and just as pissed off and unwilling to ask for help, but he can't hide the fear behind a helmet if there isn't one.

Dick's vaguely aware that it's a dream, even as he rushes to help. Aware as he is, he also knows there's no chance of him actually saving Jason. Because he never does.

* * *

He wakes up the sound of rain.

The clock in the kitchen advertises that it's half past eight in the morning. Dick drags a hand down his face before relenting and sitting up. Stepping into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. He leans against the counter and watches the rain through the window, and waits to wake up.

It feels, for all intents and purposes, like a totally normal morning.

Not like he just found out that the wounded vigilante he's been harboring in his apartment for the last few days is actually his brother who died six whole years ago. Just when he thought his life couldn't get any weirder.

Dick pours himself a cup of coffee and then burns his tongue before remembering that it's too hot. With a huff, he sets the mug back down on the counter and turns to unplug his phone from the charger. He's already pulled up Bruce's name in his contacts when he freezes, thumb hovering over the call button indecisively.

It's not a conversation for over the phone, first of all.

More importantly, he doesn't think it's a conversation he can have today.

Not that he doesn't want to. Well, want is maybe the wrong word. But it's a conversation they are definitely going to have, sooner or later. A topic they'll have to address. But it has to wait.

Because he can't tell Bruce he knows who the Red Hood is without explaining how he knows. And although when he made the promise to keep the Batman out of it he thought he was talking to the Red Hood and not Jason Todd, it's a promise Dick still intends on keeping. The trust he's managed to earn back from Jason is flimsy enough without throwing more lies into it.

He closes the contact and pockets his cell phone. Abandons his coffee in favor of a morning run. It's always been a good way to clear his head.

* * *

When he gets back he goes to check on Jason. It's about time to change the bandages again, and maybe if Dick's lucky he can talk him into taking some pain meds.

He's expecting Jason to still be asleep, but when Dick pokes his head in through the doorway, he's already awake. Flipping a page in the book from Dick's nightstand. He doesn't look up when Dick walks in, but Dick's got a feeling that it's got less to do with being immersed in the story, and more to do with not acknowledging him.

Acknowledging that he's there means conversation, and conversation means addressing things that he probably wants to ignore.

Dick gives it a second, then clears his throat and asks, "How's the book?"

Jason hazards a look up at him. Says, "What d'you want?"

"Gotta change your bandages," Dick says, waving a roll of gauze at him.

"Fine," Jason says with a small huff. He folds the top corner of the page down before closing the book, setting it back on the nightstand. Next to the untouched bottle of painkillers and an empty water glass. He holds a hand out and says, "I got it."

"We really gonna do this again?"

Jason just rolls his eyes, which is neither a confirmation or a denial. Dick sighs and walks over, sitting down at the foot of the bed and setting the med kit and gauze on the mattress next to him.

It's going great until he reaches a hand out to take a look at the bandage taped to Jason's leg, and Jason decides to jerk his leg away. He hisses as the movement fans the coal fire that the nerves in his leg have to feel like, but schools his expression back to a stony neutral before Dick can say anything.

"Look, you knowing it's me doesn't change anything," Jason says, matter of fact. "I've known who you are the entire god damn time, and I didn't want your help before. What makes you think I want it now?"

"Because you still can't change a bandage on the back of your leg by yourself," Dick says firmly.

Jason doesn't say anything. Which is about as close to conceding that he needs help as Dick thinks he's going to get.

But he's right, Dick knowing that it's Jason doesn't change much, no matter how much he wants it to. Jason lets him change the bandage without much more argument, but they don't talk the whole time he's there. Like they're still strangers. Worse than that, like they're people who used to know each other well, and somehow turned back into strangers.

All things considered, his leg's healing pretty nicely. The swelling's gone down considerably. Still no signs of infection. That doesn't change the fact that it would be healing even better if the kid wasn't such a stubborn asshole.

He rolls back over with a huff after Dick's taped the new bandage on. The one on his shoulder should still be good, Alfred changed it last night after he popped his stitches.

Jason clears his throat and says, "Six years."

Dick falters. "What?"

"You wanted to know how long I've been back," Jason says with a small shrug.

Six years.

Fuck. That's pretty much the whole time. Jason's been alive this whole time. Out god knows where doing god knows what. Not coming home, not even sending a message to let them know he's okay. Just to put them out of their misery.

Dick's first instinct is to be pissed. Which he thinks is justified, but he holds it back anyway. Jason's answering the question on his own, and it's an olive branch, of sorts. If he's starting this conversation, he's trusting Dick to have it with him. And if Dick explodes now, he's burning a bridge that he's only just started rebuilding.

So after taking a second to think about his response, Dick says calmly, "That's a long time, Jay."

"I know."

It's not an apology, but his tone is apologetic adjacent at least.

Jason's never been one for verbal apologies, and Dick doesn't expect that to change now. Especially when it seems like Jason's still convinced he was justified in staying away. In not telling them he was alive.

"What happened?" Dick starts, and it's a little too vague to be a fair question. "I mean...How are you..."

He's about to say back when he remembers Jason's reaction to the phrase last night, and instead he trails off.

"Alive?" Jason finishes for him. Dick nods and he says, "Ever heard of the Lazarus Pit?"

He's heard stories. All of them outlandish and none of them good. Whispers about a place that can heal the dying, or even resurrect the dead. But as much as he's heard about what the Pit can do for you, he's also heard what it can do to you. Stories of people driven insane. Driven to violence and murder.

Dick doesn't want to believe it. But then, he's been looking for an explanation. A reason that would explain Jason, angry but compassionate and good, into the Red Hood, ruthless killer. The news has taken to calling him a psychopath.

Dick feels bad for thinking it the instant he does--Jason isn't a psychopath, he's just gone off the tracks a little. That compassion and that goodness is still a part of him, it's just been buried.

"Jesus," Dick whispers in disbelief.

"I don't think he had a whole lot to do with it," Jason says with a bitter chuckle. Then he shrugs and says, as an afterthought, "I mean, I can't say for sure. I never did find out who threw me in."

"What? How can you not know?"

"Didn't stick around to find out," he says.

He's got the impression there's a little more to it than that, but he doesn't push. Instead he asks, "Where did you go?"

"Tahiti," Jason deadpans. "I don't fucking know. Why's it matter?"

"You were gone for five years, that's why," Dick says. He doesn't mean to raise his voice, but he does. And damn, it's been even more than six years since he saw Jason flinch over someone yelling at him. He overcompensates for it by whispering when he asks, "Where did you go, Jason? Why didn't you come home?"

"I never had a home," Jason says.

Like it's just that simple. Hell, maybe for him it is. But for Dick it's the furthest thing from simple.

He doesn't know what to say. And, now that he finally has answers, he doesn't know what he's supposed to do with them. Dick doesn't know what he thought the information would do for him, exactly. The how and the how long. It doesn't change anything.

It doesn't fix the cataclysmic rift that opened up in their lives six years ago, losing Jason. If anything it makes it worse.

At least when Jason was dead they could tell themselves he was in a better place. Dick's not very religious, but his parents were, and on the really tough days he could believe that Jason was with them in Heaven. On the days when he didn't believe in Heaven quite so much, he at least knew Jason wasn't on Earth, with all the suffering and the dirt.

Now he doesn't know where Jason's been. Just that those six years, he's been lying to himself any time he said Jason was at peace.

At a loss for words, Dick lets the silence pass for a minute. Finally, Jason breaks it. He sounds almost wary when he says, "You're upset."

Understatement.

It's not quite a question, but Dick shrugs and answers it like one anyway. Says, "Yeah. Yeah, maybe."

"It's why I didn't wanna tell you," Jason says, looking away, guilty.

"You didn't wanna upset me?" Dick says, faintly indignant. "I thought you were dead. I've _been_ upset, Jason, what did you think not telling me would spare me from, exactly?"

"Me." As if that answer isn't gut-wrenching enough, Jason clenches his hands into fists at his sides and explains, oddly calm, "You keep saying I came back. I'm not, not really. Just ask Bruce."

The idea that he didn't come home because he didn't think they would want him anymore is, put simply, heartbreaking. Especially when Dick's not sure his reasoning is totally flawed.

Dick's always going to love him no matter what. They're family, he doesn't care what Jason says.

Still, he can't say he hasn't wondered, once or twice, since finding out who he was. Finding out that Jason committed all of the atrocities that the Red Hood did. He can't say he hasn't wondered if what came back was totally Jason, or if maybe just a piece of him got left behind.

Because he's seen the Red Hood fight more than once, seen the way he pulls the trigger without a moment's hesitation. Seen how brutal he can be, vicious like a rabid wolf and so very angry. The press has called him soulless, and a couple of times Dick's felt like he agreed. And it's Jason, it's been Jason this whole time.

And Bruce wants to help, he said it himself, he wants to bring Jason back. But Jason can't see the way it's torn Bruce up.

He didn't see the months after he died that Bruce didn't sleep, barely ate, tracking down every lead for a way to make things right when there was nothing he could do. Jason didn't hear the worry in his voice, when he called after the garage came down and asked if the Red Hood had made it out. Jason can't see the way Bruce has been punishing himself for letting him down.

All Jason can see is Bruce replacing him. And Dick judging him. 

Penance, Bruce had said. And maybe Jason's been doing the same thing.

"Little wing--" Dick starts.

"Don't fucking call me that," Jason snaps, all illusions of calm dropping away. The fists at his sides are so tight his knuckles are white. Before Dick can answer, he says, "I'm not some scared little kid anymore, Dick. I don't need your help, and I sure as shit don't need your pity."

Dick sighs. "Yeah, so you've told me."

"Then why are you still here?"

It's the coldest his tone's been yet, almost to the point of being unrecognizable as Jason.

Jason still doesn't get it.

And he could explain that he's not going anywhere. That he's not giving up on him. That he never stopped caring, and it doesn't matter what Jason does, he won't ever stop caring. He could explain all of that, but he's not sure where to find those words. And, even if he could, all Jason would hear is that pity he dreads so much.

So instead he shrugs and says, "I've got one more bandage to change."

Jason scoffs.

He lets Dick change the bandage on this thigh without fighting him, but when Dick collects the trash and moves to leave, Jason's voice stops him. He says flatly, "I meant it, I don't need your help. I'm done, got it?"

"Done?" Dick echoes, turning back around. "With what?"

"Friends. Family. All of it," Jason says. It sounds like he's been thinking about this for a long time, and hell, maybe he's been thinking about it for six years. "I've seen what family fucking does for you, and it's a whole lotta nothing. It's not worth the trouble."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you need to stop thinking your brother's back," Jason says.

Dick looks at him, looks at the face that's Jason's but it isn't Jason, and he wonders if the reason he felt like they were strangers earlier is because they are. Wonders if that bridge he's so focused on rebuilding is doomed to collapse like that parking garage. Like that warehouse.

"I'm not giving up on you," Dick tells him matter of factly. And then his phone rings. He fishes it out of his pocket with the intention of turning the ringer off, when he sees who's calling. He's met with the contact photo of Tim, a camera around his neck and a rare, dorky grin on his face. Dick sighs and looks back up at Jason. Says, "I, uh. I gotta take this."

"Yeah," Jason says, a small nod.

Dick mirrors the nod, then turns to step out into the hallway. Presses the accept call button. "Hey, Tim. Everything okay?"


	13. Not Alone

"I was hoping something might make sense to you," Tim says, keeping it nice and vague.

"I keep hoping that too, but nothing ever does," Dick jokes.

"Ha, ha," Tim says, and Dick can clearly picture the eye roll that accompanies it.

It's not terribly often that Tim has to ask for help making things make sense. If he's calling Dick, it's either about Bruce, or about something he doesn't want Bruce to know he's looking into. That, or he broke the coffee machine again.

Dick walks the extra few paces into the living room. Whatever this is about, he gets the impression that it's a conversation better had without having to worry about Jason overhearing anything they might say. He moves to sit on the arm of a chair and says, "What's up?"

"It's about Kodro."

"You mean the case you told Bruce you'd stay out of?"

"Sorta like how you told him you'd stay away from Red Hood," Tim counters.

"Touché."

If nothing else, he's got to admire the kid's tenacity. Besides, Bruce might have asked Tim to stay out of it but, 1) he had to know even when he said it that it wouldn't work, and 2) Dick's not, at present, overly concerned with what Bruce wants. So he sighs and says, "Alright. What d'you need me to make sense of?"

"Well I did some research, and I was telling Bruce what I found," Tim says. "This wasn't the lead, but I mentioned that this Kodro guy moved here from Bosnia."

"Bosnia?" Dick echoes with a small frown. "Where?"

"Sarajevo," Tim says, a little impatient at being interrupted. He pauses for a second, and Dick figures Bruce must've asked the same question. Tim's eyebrow raise is almost audible when he asks, "Why? Does that mean something?"

"It's probably a coincidence," Dick says dismissively.

"What is?"

"Sarajevo," he says, shooting a look over his shoulder, at the half-closed door down the hallway. "That's where Jason died."

Which, from Tim's perspective, can be little more than coincidence. But knowing what he and Bruce know now, it's enough of a coincidence to make a person wonder.

He has to at least ask if there's a connection, when someone comes to town from the same place Jason died and makes it their mission to kill Jason, almost right away. Maybe one of Joker's henchmen? Joker probably found out who the Red Hood was last year, when he tried to get Bruce to kill him--and Dick can be pissed that Joker of all people knew about Jason before he did later.

Is it possible...What, that he wants to finish the job? He's getting the old crew back together to do it?

When Jason was telling him about Kodro's operation in Gotham it hadn't sounded overly personal. It looks like the guy just wants him out of the way because the Red Hood's been screwing up his business; wrapping all his goons around bullets will do that. Still, it's not like Dick can say he'd be surprised, to found out there's more Jason isn't telling him.

Either way, it doesn't totally add up. If Joker's connected, why would he wait a whole year to order the hit on Jason? Besides, none of this really seems like his style.

This whole case is going to be a major headache for all of them, he can feel it.

"You think this guy was there?" Tim asks.

"Maybe," Dick says with a noncommittal shrug. Then, "It's probably just a coincidence."

"Mhm, you sound super convinced," Tim says.

He files it away to ask Jason about later, although he's not sure how he plans on bringing it up. Hey Jason, remember that time you were murdered? Was this guy who just dropped a building on you there? It'll go over, Dick already knows, like a lead balloon. Another conversation he's so looking forward to.

But for right now, he asks, "What was the lead, then?"

"Oh, I know where to find him," Tim answers casually. As if it's no big.

"Where?" Dick's back on his feet before he asks, despite not having anywhere to go at the moment. "How'd you find him?"

To his credit, Tim at least tries to bury some of the smug in his answer. He says, "I checked some security footage from the buildings nextdoor to that garage, it picked up some of Kodro's guys unloading these crates."

"Yeah," Dick says, nodding along. "He was smuggling guns."

"I know. But the crates were labeled," Tim says. "Lot number, order number. All of that's stamped onto the sides of the crates, and very traceable if you happen to be able to hack the right sites."

"I doubt they were listed properly," he points out.

"No, they're listed as construction equipment. Anyway, the same company has another shipment coming in next Saturday, and I'm pretty sure Kodro will be there."

Of course he will.

The way the news has been reporting it, the Red Hood's nowhere to be found, most likely dead after the building collapse. Which means Kodro won't think he has anything to fear from going to the pier to pick up his next shipment, because he thinks the main threat to his operation has been eliminated.

Dick's going to be there, no matter what Bruce says. But next Saturday is a good five days away, so maybe he's got time to figure out a way where they go in as a team.

"Good work, Tim," Dick says.

* * *

Dick goes back to talk to Jason a little after noon, bringing a takeout menu from the Guatemalan place on the corner as a peace offering, but Jason's sleeping when he pokes his head through the door.

It's easier, he thinks, to believe that this person and the one Dick used to know are the same when he's fast asleep. Some of the tension he carries with him is faded, and he seems more relaxed. Not quite peaceful, but then, he never really was. Anyway, for the moment he looks as young as he actually is.

And Dick had been joking the other day, when he called him a baby, but he really is too young. He's supposed to be in college. Pissing off his English teachers, going out on the weekends to party with friends. Stuff like that. Not trying to sleep off a broken leg in Dick's apartment, with an as yet untouched bottle of painkillers on the nightstand.

Dick walks back out.

He's got four notifications on his phone when he checks it. There's a news headline about less than newsworthy celebrity gossip, a text from Tim, and two texts from Alfred.

He opens Tim's first, it's just an address for the pier where Kodro's shipment comes in Saturday.

Alfred's is asking how 'The Red Hood's' rib is doing. It's succinctly worded, but Dick reads the concern between the words anyway. He wants to tell Alfred everything, but for right now, he settles for telling him Hood's healing fine, and an extra thanks for checking in.

He sets the phone down on the arm of the couch and grabs the t.v. remote, switches it on. He watches about five minutes of some horrible sci-fi movie before he gets bored and switches it off, finding a channel playing Law & Order reruns.

Dick doesn't even watch the show, but he finds himself mouthing along to the intro, "...the police who investigate the crime, and the district attorneys who prosecute the offenders. These are their stories."

"DUN. DUN."

Dick jumps at the sudden noise behind him and turns to find Jason in the hallway. He's torn between laughing at hearing Jason mocking the sound of the show's intro, and asking him what the hell he's even doing out of bed, and the latter wins over. He's halfway off the couch even as he asks, "What the hell are you doing up?"

"Water," Jason says, waving the empty glass in his hand at him in case Dick doesn't know what water means. He nods towards the television and adds, "Your taste in t.v. is crap, by the way."

"I'll get you some water," Dick says, walking around the couch. "Go lay back down."

"Someone wasn't listening when I said I didn't need his help," he says, bracing one arm against the wall for balance as he limps another couple of steps towards the kitchen.

"Oh, did you say that?" Dick asks, blinking dumbly. "I wasn't listening."

Jason takes the second to push his hand away from the wall for the singular purpose of flipping Dick off, and then he's leaning on the wall again.

Eventually he's going to have to choose between rejecting the painkillers and rejecting Dick's help though, because when Dick walks over and slings Jason's arm across his shoulders, Jason's expended too much energy just getting down the hallway to even try and stop him. Dick makes the executive decision not to comment, then, on how heavily Jason leans on him.

Only when Dick tries to turn to walk him back to bed does Jason dig his heels in. Well, heel. He groans and says, "C'mon, I'm not going back to bed."

"You're not walking anywhere."

"Dick, no offense, but if I have to spend another minute in your room I'll lose my mind," Jason says flatly.

Maybe he should argue, but Dick doesn't think he can. He can't exactly blame Jason for getting frustrated, being stuck in one place for so long. Dick would probably be going stir crazy too. And the kitchen isn't too far, he supposes.

With a small sigh, he says, "Yeah, okay."

"Wasn't really asking permission," Jason has to grumble, even as he lets Dick walk him towards the kitchen.

When they're close enough, he pushes away from Dick, in favor of dropping onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. He slumps forward to put his elbows on the counter, but the movement must aggravate his ribs, because he sits up straight again with a wince. Dick watches him out of the corner of his eye as he takes the glass over to the sink to fill it, asking, "You hungry?"

Jason eyes him suspiciously for a second, like he's searching for the ulterior motive for Dick asking, before he admits, "Yeah, I could eat."

"Takeout okay?"

He nods and Dick grabs the takeout menu back up off the counter. Slides it towards Jason along with the water glass before sitting down at the bar stool two spaces down from Jason, trying to give him space. Jason catches it. He shoots a look over at Dick before his eyes flit down to the empty space between them, and something almost wounded passes across his face too quickly for Dick to properly read it.

He picks the menu up and looks down at it before asking with a forced disinterest, "So what'd the Replacement want?"

"Well that's not his name," Dick says, aware he sort of sounds like a kindergarten teacher correcting a problem kid. He gets back up to get his own glass of water and says, "He just had a quick question."

It's vague, but it's not really a lie.

He knows he has to actually address the conversation with Jason at some point, but he can't bring himself to do it right now. He'd like to have one conversation with Jason, now that he knows it's Jason, without bringing up him dying. It doesn't seem fair, to make him keep talking about it.

If the look Jason gives him is any indication, he knows Dick's keeping things from him. But he doesn't press, he just slides the takeout menu back across the counter at him. Says, "Hilachas doesn't sound too bad."

He puts in the order, getting some tostadas for himself, and then sits back down at his stool.

It's just quiet for a minute, and Dick wonders if there's something he's supposed to be saying. After some time passes Jason must sense the awkwardness, because he takes pity, turning to Dick to say, "You don't have to sit here, y'know."

"I know," Dick says.

But he doesn't really want to walk away, and maybe Jason doesn't want him too, either. Dick's not totally convinced that Jason just doesn't give a shit anymore, no matter what Jason says to the contrary.

He saved Dick's life at the parking garage, and that has to mean something. And Jason's proven on more than enough occasions that he's still a stubborn bastard, possibly even more so than before, so if he really didn't want to be here? He could've found a way not to be. Could've at least tried to lie about having someone else to take care of him so Dick would drop him back at the safehouse, or refused to let Dick help him in the first place.

In short, Jason's only here because he chooses to be. Whether he realizes it or not, he doesn't want to be alone. So Dick can't just get up and walk away.

Jason scoffs, like he knows what Dick's thinking. Less than impressed, he says, "You're relentless."

"Now you're getting it."

Jason just rolls his eyes, and they lapse back into silence, with the t.v. playing in the background. Dick turns around, to pretend like he's at least sort of watching it.

He remembers a time when he could sit in comfortable silence with Jason, and not feel pressured to think of something to say. Worse still, he remembers a time when he could sit in total silence with Jason, and still feel like he understood everything going on in the kid's head.

This isn't like that. The air hangs heavy with things they're not saying.

Another long minute passes, and finally Dick turns to Jason and says, "I think you should talk to Alfred."

"No," Jason says. It seems like more of an instinct than anything, because after a second goes by for him to process Dick's request, he frowns and asks, "Why?"

"He's worried about you."

Again, "Why?"

It's more of a challenge than a question.

"C'mon, he knows it's you, Jay," Dick says. Even if Jason had refused to admit it to Alfred, Alfred has to have figured it out. And, even if he hasn't, "Doesn't he deserve to know you're okay?"

"I'm not okay," Jason says, matter of fact.

"You know what I mean."

Jason huffs, but otherwise doesn't answer.

To a degree, Dick can understand Jason's vendetta against Bruce. He's not happy about it, and he wishes Jason could see how much he's cared for, but he gets it. Alfred, though, he can't quite make sense of.

He and Alfred were always so close. He was the only one Alfred ever let help out in the kitchen--which admittedly had more to do with culinary skills than favoritism, but it was quality time they spent together, just the two of them, and Dick remembers how proud Jason was whenever he learned a new dish. And Jason was the first one to get away with calling him Alfie.

Dick's not sure where it'll get him, but he says, "Can I ask why not?"

"I told you, I'm done with it," Jason says, but it lacks the same conviction as this morning. There's more to it than that.

"Well we're not done with you."

"You mean you're not," Jason corrects. When Dick frowns at him, he says, "Take a look around, Dickie. Bruce saw what I am now and he wants nothing to do with me. And you're only still trying 'cause you think you can fucking fix me."

"I'm not--" Dick starts and then stops. He can try and get Jason to understand why he's still trying later. Back on topic, he says, "What does that have to do with Alfred?"

"Because either he'll react like you, or he'll react like Bruce. And I don't need any of that, not from him too."

It makes a little more sense now.

Rather than face whatever Alfred might or might not say when he came face to face with him, Jason's already resigned himself to the worst. The binary of Bruce or Dick. Judgement or pity. And having those two be your only choices of treatment at all would be bad enough already, but once Alfred knows, that's it for him.

The three of them were the only family Jason really had. Alfred's his last chance.

Retribution or redemption.

Dick looks at him, where Jason's gaze is fixed on the counter in front of him, and says, "Alfred isn't me, and he isn't Bruce. He's just Alfred."

"That doesn't change anything. I said I'm done."

"Jason, that hurt your feeling? About me or Bruce or everything you went through. It's the same as the bone in your leg," Dick says. "It will heal, if you let it. If you ignore it, it's only gonna get more painful."

Jason snorts. "Did Alfred tell you to say that?"

He can't deny that it's probably something Alfred told him once, when he was younger. Dick just asks, "Give him a chance?"

"I'll think about it," Jason grumbles. "If you'll shut up."

"Deal."


	14. Tougher Stuff

Dick waits until well in the afternoon the next day to even bring up his talk with Tim.

Logically he knows it's probably better to find out what Jason knows, if anything, sooner rather than later. But the kid's probably talked more about his own death in the last two days since telling Dick who he was than he has in the six years he's been back. And it's not like those talks are particularly pleasant for Dick either.

That, and there are a couple of different possibilities where Kodro is concerned.

Because either his connection to Sarajevo is a coincidence, or it isn't. If it is, then Dick will be dredging up the memory for no reason. If it isn't, that doesn't necessarily mean Jason knows about the connection already. Dick's not anticipating his reaction to learning that particular tidbit, should things turn out that way.

He's only keeping Jason here by a thread as it is.

So yeah, he's been putting it off. But Saturday will be here soon enough, and it's best they go in with as much information as possible. He has to know whatever Jason knows.

Dick knocks on the doorframe with a paper bag in his other hand. A peace offering from a fast food joint down the block. Jason and food is a universal constant, Dick's just hoping the preemptive apology works better than one after the fact. He says, "Can I talk to you 'bout something?"

"I'd make a 'captive audience' joke," Jason says, not bothering to look up from the book. "But it feels too obvious."

"I'll laugh anyway."

Something in his tone must give him away, because Jason shoots a skeptical look across at him, before folding the page over and discarding the book. He seems like he's in a better mood than yesterday, or the day before--Dick's not sure how much of that he can attribute to the fact the bottle of painkillers has moved on the nightstand an inch to the left--and Dick almost reconsiders having this talk right now.

But Jason nods towards the bag Dick's holding and asks, "Is that a bribe?"

"It's a burger, actually."

"Cheese?"

"Yea."

"Hm. Bribe," Jason says with a decisive nod. Then he cracks a grin, holding a hand out and saying, "But a bribe I'll accept."

Dick's already passing the bag to him when he asks, "You don't wanna know why I'm bribing you first?"

Jason shrugs, and Dick takes it as confirmation that he actually did take some of the pain meds when he only pulls a small wince. As he digs the burger out of the bag, he looks up at Dick and counters, "You don't wanna make sure I'll help before handing over your leverage?"

"I'm not sure you can help anyway," Dick admits.

Which is, apparently, enough to catch a little more of Jason's attention. He indicates the space at the foot of the bed, and Dick takes the prompt to sit down. Jason peels back the paper wrapper, and after a second he rolls his eyes and says, "My silence is your cue. You wanna tell me what you want or just sit there?"

"I wanted to ask you about Kodro."

"Sorry dude, I can't help you find him," Jason says easily. "It's gonna be kinda tough for me to shoot his ass if he's locked in a cell. And besides, I dunno where he is."

"You're not gonna shoot anyone," Dick says on impulse.

Jason just arches an eyebrow, as if to ask 'Aren't I?' Something of a challenge, but it's far too casual a demeanor for somebody talking about taking a life. That's more unsettling than any of the anger is, in a way. At least the anger he could write off as a result of the Pit. This easy disregard is harder to see past.

He's seen this attitude from other people before, of course he has. But never from someone he knows. Only from...well, villains seems to be the only word for it. And Jason isn't a villain. Dick won't _let_ him be.

Some of his discomfort must show, though, because Jason scoffs. Says, "Uh oh, time for another lecture? So soon?"

He almost sounds like some moody teen talking back about being told not to smoke or something, Dick would know, he was there when Jason actually was a teen being scolded for smoking. Only this time he's almost twenty, and they're talking about murder.

So Dick's halfway to firing some retort back at him before he rethinks it. Shakes his head and says, "That's not--I'm not here to lecture you, Jason."

"No, go ahead," Jason says, waving a hand as if to encourage him. He leans back and says, "What's it gonna be this time, the People Can Change or the You're Better Than That?"

"You are better than that."

Dick should probably know better than to engage with this, but he can't help it.

Jason nods, like it's exactly the reply he was expecting. He answers pointedly, "I'm really not."

"You used to be."

The second it leaves his mouth he thinks about taking it back. He can't.

Even if he could, he knows he shouldn't.

This isn't the conversation he was planning on having, but maybe it's something Jason needs to hear, nonetheless. Because there's two different Jasons now. The Before and the After.

Both of them are pissed at the world and looking for a fight wherever they go, but that's where the similarities end. Before, he'd never killed anyone. He just wasn't capable. Dick remembers giving Jason a driving lesson one time, not that he'd really needed it, and Jason crashing the car. Swerving to avoid hitting this possum in the road.

The After Jason isn't just capable of killing, he is a killer. Gotham's very own lex talionis.

And he has to realize at some point that he's gone off the path, if he ever wants to stop being lost.

"Dick, you really are a _dick,"_ Jason tells him.

"Gee, I haven't heard that one before," Dick says flatly. Mature as ever, Jason flips him off. He runs a hand through his hair and says with a sigh, "Look, Jay, I'm not trying to--"

"Just ask your question so you can go," Jason says impatiently.

Dick thinks about pushing it, but he's not really sure what he was trying to explain anyway. He stands by what he said, Jason used to be better than this. So instead he huffs and lets Jason change the subject. Asks, "How do you know Kodro?"

From Jason's that's-it? expression, he can probably guess the kid doesn't know about any connection, if there is one. He skips past the sarcasm, though. Probably because, like he said, Dick can leave sooner if Jason can answer his question. So he says, "Like I said, kid from my building gave me a tip."

"Nothing else?" Dick prompts.

He can't exactly take the first answer Jason gives him on faith. They're both basically professionally trained liars, and besides, any faith they had in each other is apparently still in the earth. Six feet under.

"Well he dropped a building on me," Jason says with a sardonic grin. "You remember. You were there."

He wiggles the toes of his broken foot just to add to the effect of the sarcasm, and then hisses out a sharp breath when the action instead serves as a rude reminder of the pain his leg should be causing.

"Yeah, it was a trap," Dick says. "Why's he want you dead again?"

"It's him or me." It really is just as simple as that to Jason. Or it was, until now. Because he's caught on to the way Dick's evaluating his answers, like he thinks there's more to it, because he does. Jason frowns. Asks, "What's this about?"

"It's nothing," Dick says, moving to get up.

If Jason really does know about any connection, there's no use bringing it up, making him think about that warehouse any more than he has to.

Unfortunately, nothing ever seems to be that easy with Jason. He says, or rather demands, "What aren't you telling me?"

He could just walk away. It's not like Jason can follow him.

Actually, Jason's probably stubborn enough to try. Dick really has no interest in setting a bone again, like ever. With that in mind, he sits back down and says, reluctantly, "Sarajevo."

"You going on vacation or what?"

"Kodro came to Gotham from Sarajevo," he explains.

He can actually see the instant Jason realizes what the question really was. He looks like he's about to curse Dick out some more, which is maybe justified, and certainly not unexpected. Instead he says, with a cold degree of finality to it, "There's no connection."

Dick doesn't want to push it, but he needs to ask, "You're sure?"

Of course he's sure. Jason's sure of everything he says, even when the accuracy of it varies.

"Pretty damn."

He says it almost like a challenge.

The question of how he can be so damn sure hangs in the air between them, but Dick's not planning on asking it. Not right anyway. He'll take Jason's word for it, because that's really the only word available.

It won't make that much of a difference anyway. Kodro will be off the streets by Sunday morning, putting his days of blowing up parking garages and dealing weapons behind him, in favor of a nice jail cell. Dick will make sure of it and, even if he didn't, Bruce and Tim would. Whatever this guy's reasoning for wanting Jason dead is, it won't matter. They'll both live. Despite Jason's best efforts.

But Jason doesn't seem as confident that Dick's just going to trust him on this. The thread is fraying. He explains preemptively, "There wasn't anyone else."

"Not even a driver or something?"

Jason shakes his head. Says with a voice like wormwood, "There's no connection, Dick."

He doubts Joker got an entire person all the way to Bosnia singlehandedly. Especially given how long it took Bruce to trace them there. Which means that there has to be a crew of some sort, even if Jason didn't meet them. It could still be a coincidence, of course. But there's something needling at Dick's brain, it makes him think that there's more to it than it.

Jason frowns at him, and Dick sighs. He says, "Believe me, I want this to be a coincidence, but..."

"It is," Jason says firmly. Almost defensively. He scoffs and adds, "Besides, if there was anyone else, they'd be dead by now."

"Because you'd have killed them?" Dick asks skeptically.

It's disputable, in part because Jason doesn't know who was or wasn't involved. He already admitted he doesn't even know who brought him back. And then there's the simple fact that Jason hasn't managed to kill Joker yet. Dick thinks this conversation will go better if he refrains from bringing that up.

Jason gives an exasperated sigh.

"I wouldn't have to. He would've done it already," Jason says. And maybe he's given serious thought to hunting down anyone involved before, because the answer is prepared. "Bruce only found me when that fucking clown wanted him to. You think a plan like that works with loose ends?"

Actually, no. It's a fair point.

Dick's a little preoccupied to focus on the fair point. Maybe he lied when he said he wasn't here to lecture Jason, because he just has to ask, "How can you be okay with that?"

"The fuck are you talking about?"

"The only reason you didn't kill them is that Joker beat you to it?" Dick's aware it's mostly hypothetical people they're talking about anyway, he's aware they still know next to nothing. But it being hypothetical doesn't make the reality of it any less important. He frowns. Says, "Jason. Tell me you see what's wrong with that."

Jason's expression is even harder to read than usual, so it's impossible to tell what he's thinking when he answers without emotion, "Are you comparing me to him?"

Of course he isn't.

There's no comparison to be made, even if he wanted to. But they're biggest dissimilarity also happens to be one of Jason's biggest weaknesses, Dick thinks. It's that he's actually got a soul. Unfortunately, the road to hell isn't paved with asphalt alone.

"No, I'm not," Dick says, running a tired hand through his hair. "I just want you to think about what you're doing."

"I'm doing what has to be done," Jason says, his voice deceptively level, but vehement nonetheless. "And since the Batman's too much of a bitch, it's gotta be that does it. But hey, you knew exactly what I was when you brought me here, Dick. So if what I do bothers you so damn much, you should've let the Red Hood die in that garage."

A part of him has to wonder whether that's what Jason wants.

Jason's icy glare isn't much of an answer but, to be fair, Dick doesn't actually ask. He's not actually sure what he would do with the answer, even if he had it. It's like the thread just unravels more with every word he says.

He says, "Look, I was never gonna leave you back there, and that doesn't change now."

"Then quit your bitching," Jason scoffs.

"Yeah, I'll quit my bitching," Dick says, nodding. "The second you quit killing people."

"I don't kill people." Now's a little late to plead innocence. Good thing that's not where Jason's going with this. Pleading or innocence never were his style. He smiles, that smile that means he knows what he's gonna say will piss somebody right off, and says, "I kill dirtbags. I kill lowlife douchebags that think they can get away with hurting people, hurting kids, because the worst they'll get for it is a short visit to some cozy fucking prison cell. I don't kill people."

Dick gets up. Paces a few steps towards the door.

He's not planning on leaving, exactly, he just think he can sit next to Jason when he's talking like...Dick takes in a deep breath and lets it out before saying, "Those 'lowlife douchebags' have families, Jason. People that care about them."

"Hey, we both know how quick families move on, don't we?"

It's a barb. Not one Dick's going to acknowledge.

"Y'know, I read the casefiles from last year," Dick says. Jason raises an eyebrow, only even half interested, and Dick says, "You severed. The Heads. Off those gang lieutenants."

He doesn't know where he was hoping it would get him, bringing that up. Maybe he just needed to accuse Jason face to face, and now felt right. But maybe he was hoping Jason hearing what he was guilty of from a loved one would wake him up somehow.

Whatever he wanted, he doesn't get it.

Dick doesn't feel any better having said it out loud, and Jason doesn't look even a little bit bothered. He shrugs with a detached air and says, "They got off easy, if you ask me."

"You started a gang war," Dick says. Another accusation that falls short.

"Nobody got hurt that didn't deserve it. I made sure."

Just because no civilians were injured in that chaos doesn't mean it wasn't a possibility. But that's a lost cause, Dick already knows it. So instead he asks, "What about you, Jay? What happens when somebody decides you deserve it?"

And he just wants Jason to stop and think about what he's doing.

Making powerful enemies left and right, and this time without Bruce to protect him. Pissing off every major gang or dealer in Gotham just to prove a point. Pissing off Black Mask just to get at Joker. It was a damn good strategy, sure. Right up to the part where it put Jason in the sights of every blood hungry criminal out there.

Right up to the part where the Red Hood might kill the wrong person one day, and he has far from a monopoly on revenge.

"Somebody already did," Jason points out, his tone vitriolic. He's not just trying to unravel the thread, he's hacking at it with a pair of scissors. "And I'm gonna do everything I can to make sure that doesn't happen to some other kid. Something you and Bruce should've done a long time ago, by the way. And you don't have to like it, but you sure as hell can't stop me. Not from that high horse you're on."

The not so subtle implication being that someone has to kill him to stop him. The very idea of which sends a shiver down his spine.

But a high horse. Maybe that's an apt metaphor. After all, Jason has been trudging through the mud all on his own. And Dick's been passing judgment on him for how he chooses to do it, all the while he's never had to plow through it without support.

It doesn't make him any more approving of Jason's methods, but he has to consider a different approach.

He tries the age old, "If you kill a killer, the number of killers in the world stays the same."

"Good thing I killed more than one, huh? Your math sucks."

Yeah, he didn't really think that would work.

Dick paces closer again and says, "Killing these people won't undo what they've done. It won't bring that kid back."

It's then that Dick realizes maybe helping him realize he's gone off the path isn't really the problem. Not if Jason doesn't want to be found. He scoffs and says, an accusation plain and simple, "You're the one trying to bring him back. Not me."

No, Jason's trying his damnedest to bury him.

And Dick's already seen him buried once before. He has no intention whatsoever of standing by and watching it happen again, not to any version of Jason, Before or After. Not if he can help it.

"You're wrong," Dick says, matter of fact. "I don't need to bring him back...It'd be nice if he stopped trying to push me away though."

Jason groans, knocking his head back against the wall and murmuring, "I wouldn't have to, if you'd give it up already."

"I'm relentless," Dick reminds him with a half smile.

"You're an idiot."

"That, too," Dick says with a shrug.

Jason just rolls his eyes and picks the book back up off the nightstand. A silent indication that he's done talking. And frankly, Dick's done enough talking today too, so he takes the hint. He releases a breath and turns quietly to leave.

Let Jason try to sever the thread however he wants. It's made of tougher stuff than that. They both are.


	15. Clarity Over Cucumber Sandwiches

Dick figures it's a good idea to give Jason some space after yesterday's talk, so he heads out for the afternoon. A quick drive might help him to clear his head anyway, and maybe he can swing by the market for some groceries.

Halfway there it occurs to him that picking up more cereal won't exactly help anything make more sense. Instead, he finds himself taking the next left, passing his usual market by. About fifteen or so minutes later he's pulling up on Wayne Manor.

The walk up the drive feels longer than usual. Probably, at least in part, thanks to the rain coming down. It was just a light drizzle when Dick left the house so he left his umbrella behind, naturally it's picked up. By the time he makes it inside his jacket's soaked. He can hear the water squish in his sneakers as he steps into the quiet of the entrance hall. He calls, "Hello? Anyone home?"

Dick shrugs his jacket off and leaves it on the coat rack by the door and wanders further inside. He's not sure who he's looking for exactly, but he stumbles on Alfred in the kitchen, slicing cucumbers.

He doesn't seem totally surprised that Dick's there. In fact he barely even looks up from the cutting board to say, "Master Dick, it's good to see you."

"You too, Alf," Dick says with a small nod.

In a tone that sort of sounds like he already knows the answer, Alfred asks, "To what do we owe the visit?"

"I'm not really sure," Dick admits. He glances around the kitchen, altogether unchanged since the last time he was here. Says, "Is Bruce home?"

"Attending a meeting with one of Master Tim's school teachers," Alfred says, shooting a glance over his shoulder at Dick. "They should both be back shortly."

It's almost a relief. He doesn't know what he would've said to Bruce if he'd found him. It's not like he can just act normal when he knows the secrets Bruce has been keeping from them. Still he can't say anything without betraying Jason's trust, which is maybe something he's done a little too much already lately.

He walks over to the kitchen island, and he's about to sit on the countertop when a reproachful look from Alfred stops him, and he takes a seat at one of the stools instead. With a small nod, Alfred returns to slicing vegetables.

The simple constant of Alfred just being there is usually a comfort all by itself. He's got this way of just being _there_. Dick can't explain it beyond that, but he remembers countless occasions from when he was younger, in which just sitting in a room with the man was enough to quiet some of his nerves.

Maybe it's the kitchen, or maybe it's the past few days Dick's been having, but today that isn't the case.

He remembers being eighteen and sitting at this kitchen island with a young Jason, while Alfred "helped" them bake a cake for Bruce's birthday. It's funny how happy memories have a way of turning bittersweet as they age.

"I don't know what I'm doing, Alfred," Dick blurts out with a frustrated sigh. It's a little more honest than he intended, at least so early on in the conversation. Alfred wipes his hands on his apron and turns to look at him, one eyebrow arched. Dick passes a hand over his face and says, "You know who he is, right?"

"The Red Hood? I believe I do, yes."

Dick mirrors the nod Alfred gives him. He says it simply, "He's different."

Which doesn't begin to cover it.

"As are you, from the person you were six years ago," Alfred says sagely. He turns back to the food he's preparing, putting the cucumber slices into a colander, and asks, "Put the kettle on, won't you?"

"Yeah, sure."

He pushes the stool out and makes his way over to the cupboards to retrieve a kettle. As he heads towards the sink to fill it, Dick says, "Bruce knew this whole time. Why would he keep something like this from us?"

"I believe," Alfred says pensively, "He believes he's protecting us."

"Jason wouldn't hurt us."

Even he's a little shocked at how sure of it he sounds.

There have been a few instants since he found out about Hood where he wondered whether it was even Jason at all. Him being a totally different person disguised as Jason, or a soulless clone built in a laboratory somewhere almost seemed more believable. Instants where he's wondered whether there was just a tiny little piece of Jason left behind when he got brought back.

Dick knows he's right, though, because he wouldn't be standing here right now if he wasn't.

"You're certain?" Alfred challenges. "I thought you said he'd changed?"

"He saved my life."

It's the best way Dick can think to articulate it, but it doesn't hold the weight of his conviction. For now, Alfred seems to accept it anyway. He shrugs and says, "At any rate, it's not Master Jason he hopes to protect us from."

Cryptic and vague statements, Dick's sure, are a trait Bruce learned being raised by Alfred. Yeah, he gets there's more wisdom in figuring things out on your own or whatever, but some days Dick would love it if just one member of this family could give a straight answer. Just once.

But it occurs to Dick that maybe every time Bruce said he'd give them an explanation soon, what he was waiting for was good news. He doesn't want to burden them with...whatever this is. With worrying about the danger Jason's putting himself in as the Red Hood, or worse, the danger he's putting others in as the Red Hood.

And Dick's convictions aside, he has to admit that Jason _is_ dangerous now. He blew up that apartment building last year with himself, Bruce, and Joker still in it. He tried to talk Bruce into murder.

So he's protecting them from Jason in a way. But Alfred's right, there's more to it than that. This weight Dick's been feeling since he found out the truth is what Bruce wanted to protect them from.

He doesn't want to give them the hope that Jason's back only for them to lose him again.

Dick snorts and says, "Atlas has got nothing on Bruce, huh?"

"He believes the Red Hood is his responsibility."

Alfred's moved on to retrieving a loaf of bread from the breadbox on the opposite counter by then. It's easier to ask now that he's turned away anyway, and Dick says to the tiled floor, "What if he's too far gone?"

"Is that what you think?"

If Alfred was angry it would, Dick thinks, be justified. He feels guilty just for considering it, letting alone asking out loud. But Alfred's not angry, it's just a question.

Dick hums. He's not sure what he thinks, that's why he's here in the first place.

All those clichés about how 'the people we love never truly leave us' and 'he's not gone as long as you remember him' that people spouted after Jason died feel sort of like cruel jokes now.

He has to at least entertain the idea that Jason Todd really is gone. Replaced with someone who has Jason's memories and his face, but it's not really him.

Only if Dick really believed it, surely Jason would be cuffed to a hospital bed and not free in Dick's apartment.

People coming back from the dead is so complicated, no wonder they don't do it more often.

"I don't know," he says after some thought. He shakes his head and says again, because it's about all he's certain of, "He's different."

"It would be rather foolish to expect anything else," Alfred tells him. Before Dick has time to figure out whether he's being insulted, Alfred pulls a knife from the drawer and asks, "Different how?"

Dick rolls his eyes and says, "You saw him."

"I saw a troubled individual. Quick to anger, yes. Caustic and altogether untrusting," Alfred says as he lathers some sort of spread over the slices of bread. Dick nods along, because yeah, that sounds about right. And Alfred pauses to look up at him, adding with a shrug, "But then, all of that could be said of the Jason Todd that we knew."

"The Jason Todd that we knew never killed anybody."

That's the root of it. And it's not something he can just let go of, no matter how he wants to.

He's aware that morality isn't really black and white. Good and bad are subjective labels, real life is more complicated than that, blah, blah. But there are a few fundamentals of which Dick can be pretty certain, and number one is that carrying a ton of guns around and actively seeking out people with heads to blow off is a bad thing to do. Even if those heads belong to criminals.

"Kettle's boiled," Alfred points out.

Dick wonders if maybe even Alfred doesn't have a good answer to what Jason's doing.

He turns back to switch the stove back off, swinging a cupboard door open to dig out a teapot. As he's looking through the cupboard, he hears Alfred say, "The clay one, if you don't mind."

"Got it," Dick says, grabbing the clay one down.

It's an ancient thing. Been in the kitchen as long as Dick can remember, and it looked old then. A red clay with the picture of a dragon etched into the sides. All the years Dick lived at the manor it's stayed in one piece, but as he grabs it today he can't help but notice there's a small chip in the lid.

He sets the tea to steep in the pot and sits back down at the island. Alfred's carefully dividing the cucumber slices between each slice of bread and, as he does, he says, "I do have one question."

"Shoot," Dick says.

Probably a poor choice of words, given the subject matter, but Alfred doesn't comment. He just starts to add the top slices of bread to his little sandwiches and says, "You were unaware of the Red Hood's true identity until very recently, correct?"

He nods. "Yeah."

With a skeptical frown, Alfred asks, "And yet you brought a known killer into your home. Why?"

Coming from anyone else, it might be a reprimand. A lecture on personal safety or something boring like that. Because admittedly, even if he was injured, taking an ostensibly deranged vigilante into your home might technically, in a way, be considered something akin to an unwise decision. Okay, it was a stupid move. Not that Dick even had time to think about it like that when he made the decision. 

No, all he was thinking was, "He needed my help. I couldn't just walk away."

"No, I wouldn't think that you would," Alfred concedes as he cuts the sandwiches into triangles. He says, "But the Red Hood wasn't too far gone when you believed him a stranger. Why does him being Jason make that any different?"

"Because--" Dick starts, and then stops when he realizes he doesn't actually have an answer.

Damn Alfred.

It's just harder to look past what a person's become, maybe, when he's seen what they used to be. It's not fair, he knows that. He doesn't want to keep comparing Jason to what he used to be, it's not easy for either of them.

"Food for thought," Alfred says, sliding a plate of cucumber sandwich over towards him.

Dick offers a half smile, then gets up to pull out a pair of teacups. He sets them down on the island and Alfred watches him pick up the teapot and start to pour out the tea.

He only fills about half of the first cup before the stupid lid knocks itself loose. Falls sideways into the pot. Splashes hot tea out onto the counter and Dick's t-shirt. He drops the pot back onto the island with a small thunk, stepping back instinctively. Alfred just raises an eyebrow at him, and Dick nods dumbly towards the offending pot to say, "The lid's chipped, guess it came loose."

Alfred walks around the island to stand beside Dick, carefully plucking the lid out from the pot. He dries it off on his apron before replacing it and, when he goes to pour the tea, he puts his thumb over the lid to hold it in place.

"Things change over time. It is the same pot," Alfred says easily. "Still, if you wish to interact with it, you can't approach it the same way you once did. You might get burned. But if you know how to go about it..."

He moves on to the second teacup, pouring it without spilling a drop. Then he sets the pot back down, sliding the cup towards Dick with a pointed look.

Dick accepts the cup with a small sigh.

"I get it. You're good. Very subtle," Dick says, shaking his head at the eccentricity of it.

He can't imagine Jason would like being compared to an old teapot. Still, Alfred makes a point. An unnecessarily elaborate one, but a point nonetheless.

It's the same pot he grew up with. And he's only heard it once since he came back, but Jason still has the same laugh. He reads books and wears Wonder Woman socks. And he's sarcastic and bitter, yes, but that kid in his apartment building trusted him enough to go to him for help. And dammit, Jason trusted Dick enough to come to him for help.

Eventually he'll stop screwing it up.

First he has to stop looking at it like the Red Hood and Jason Todd are still two different people. He's still Jason, he just grew up.

Dammit Alfred.

He shoots a look over at Alfred and quips, "So did you chip a perfectly good pot just to make a point or what?"

It earns a light laugh as Alfred shakes his head and says, "It was already chipped, I merely took advantage."

As grateful as he is, it's not entirely the clarity he needs. Dick doesn't have the first idea as to how to fix things with Jason, just a stronger belief that he has to. He's just opened his mouth to express as much to Alfred when he hears footsteps from the hall. An instant later, Bruce appears in the doorway.

"Alfred, are you in here?" Bruce says as he rounds the corner. Then, "Oh, hey Dick. I didn't know you were coming over today, I have a conference call in ten. I can cancel it if--"

"I just wanted to talk to Alfred," Dick says.

He doesn't mean it to come out so brusque, but Bruce frowns and asks, "You okay?"

Not particularly. Still, he sighs and answers, "Yeah. Long couple of days."

"Look, about the other night," Bruce says, taking a half step further into the kitchen. "I'm sorry."

The thing is, Dick believes him. As mad as Dick is that Bruce isn't telling him everything, he definitely hears it when Bruce says he'll explain everything later that he means it. He wants to tell them what's going on, he just doesn't think he can.

Dick's not sure if it's an answer or a change of subject but he says, "I can help, you know."

"I know," Bruce says earnestly. Then with a more casual air he adds, "I was going to talk to you about that, actually. Tim probably told you about Saturday already?"

"Yeah, he called me."

"I thought he might've. We don't know a whole lot about this guy, so we're gonna need a solid strategy before we move. If you're free some time this week..."

"Hang on, are you asking me to work this one with you?"

Not that they haven't worked together a thousand times before, even after Dick branched out as Nightwing. But after all of Bruce's insistence that he stay out of this one, he thinks the surprise in his voice is warranted.

"Dick, you can take care of yourself, I know that. It doesn't mean I'll stop worrying about you," Bruce tells him. Then he shrugs and says, "But you're gonna be there anyway, no matter what I say, so it's probably best we go in as a team. And you're right. You're an adult. It's not fair of me to expect you to stay away from what I trained you for."

"No. It's not," Dick says, matter of fact. And at the moment, it's more of an insistent reminder than a compliment when he adds, "We make a good team, B."

"Yeah," Bruce says, like a second apology. It's still not the answers Dick wants from him, but it's something. Dick offers a small smile, which is apparently the invitation Bruce was waiting for to step the rest of the way into the kitchen. He nods towards Alfred and says, "Tim's failing English."

"Is he now?"

"What happened here?" Bruce asks, momentarily distracted by the tea spill on the counter.

Alfred gives Dick a look and says, "Your uncivilized creature of a son doesn't know how to pour tea properly."

"Hey, me neither."

Dick shakes his head at Bruce. It's something of a truce when he cracks a grin and jokes, "One of your kids is failing English and the other can't use simple kitchen equipment. What _are_ you teaching us?"

"Karate?"

Dick laughs despite himself, and Alfred gives a disapproving tut as he says, "Yes. Far more useful."

Bruce's phone beeps a couple of times, and he swipes away at a notification before turning back to Dick. He flashes a rueful smile and says, "I gotta get that call."

"Yeah, go ahead. I was heading out soon anyway."

"Listen, there's something I need to talk to you and Tim about," Bruce says, almost reluctantly. He shoots a look down at his shoes before looking back up at Dick and saying, "Before Saturday."

"I'll swing by sometime this week."

For a second it looks like Bruce is about to say something else, but his phone beeps at him again before he can. He lets out a heavy sigh and turns to head back out of the kitchen. Dick watches him leave with a degree of uncertainty before turning back to Alfred to say, "I should get going. Thanks, for the tea."

"Any time," Alfred says, like he means it. "Perhaps before you go, you could convince Master Tim to abandon his sulking and come eat?"

"I'll give it my best shot."


	16. Bad Weather

He does actually swing by the market for groceries on the way home. The next stop after that is a local pharmacy, to pick up a pair of crutches. While he's there, he picks up an assortment of bandages and alcohol wipes, to replenish his first aid kit which has been kind of lacking lately. When the cashier gives him an odd look he shrugs and says, not a total lie, "My brother's kind of danger prone."

"Extreme sports?" The cashier asks with a knowing nod.

"Something like that," Dick says, putting some cash down on the counter. "Keep the change."

Stopping at the pharmacy turns out to have been the right call, because by the time Dick makes it home Jason's bleeding again.

"Hey, Jay, I--" Dick starts, poking his head into the bedroom. He cuts himself off when he notices that wound on Jason's shoulder is reopened, again. He takes in the bloody rag on the bed next to him, and the fact that Jason appears to be sewing it up with dental floss, and just manages an incredulous, "What the fuck, dude?"

"What do you want?"

Jason doesn't even look up to acknowledge him. His laser-point focus, Dick gets the impression, is reserved less for the stitches themselves and more for restraining himself from wincing.

All things considered, Dick has to admit it looks like he's doing a pretty good job of it.

It shouldn't be totally shocking, seeing as it was something Jason must've stitched up on his own the first time to begin with. Nonetheless, it would probably be easier to let someone else help. With the proper supplies at that. Even easier still to just stop popping the damn stitches in the first place. This is at least the second time Dick's aware of.

On that note, Dick says, "Y'know those tend to heal faster if you don't tear them open again every other day."

"I'll be sewing your mouth shut next," Jason growls. He grits his teeth as he pulls the needle through his shoulder, and he might not wince but Dick certainly does.

"With dental floss?" he says skeptically. "We have actual supplies for that."

"This was closer," Jason says with a one shouldered shrug.

Not by much. The first aid kit is in the cupboard under the sink, whereas the floss was on top of the sink. He's about to point as much out, when he figures the task of crouching to retrieve something from a cupboard under the sink is a much simpler one when both your legs work properly. He probably couldn't reach without risking making things worse.

Dick makes a mental note to move the first aid kit to the top drawer instead.

"Where'd you get the needle?" Not that it's really the most crucial of questions, but for some reason it's the first one his brain asks. Jason just nods towards his leather jacket at the foot of the bed, and Dick asks skeptically, "You keep a needle in your jacket?"

"This is Gotham City. I keep a lot of crap in my jacket," he says simply. Like this isn't totally bonkers.

Well, for them, maybe it really isn't all that bonkers.

Now that Dick thinks about it, keeping a needle in your jacket seems like a smart idea, when situations like this one tend to crop up as frequently as they do. And he's pretty sure he's seen Bruce stitch a wound with dental floss once before. But when he did it, there wasn't a perfectly decent first aid kit down the hall, with sterile thread in it for exactly this issue.

The more important question, anyway, is how someone who was supposed to be resting managed to tear the stitches in the first place. Dick says, "What did you even do?"

"I just wanted to see how much I could move," Jason says, with a huff that indicates he didn't like the answer. That or he doesn't like the questions. Still if that's the case, Dick figures he just has to be grateful it's the stitches he messed up and not his leg. Jason finishes off a final stitch before repeating impatiently, "What do you want?"

"Actually I uh, I got you something that might help," Dick says.

Jason finally looks up, if only to shoot an exasperated look Dick's way. Dick holds the crutches out for him to see.

Honestly, he doesn't really think Jason should be walking around just yet. If he had a cast that might be different, but that flimsy splint won't do a hell of a lot to help him if he slips or something. Dick's sure if he asked any medical professional they'd tell him the same thing. But if Jason's proven anything since being here, it's that he's gonna do what he wants no matter how ill advised it is, and at least a set of crutches will provide more balance than the walls.

Jason looks skeptically back and forth between Dick and the crutches, and Dick can almost see the gears turning in his head. He was sort of expecting Jason to ask why, that seems to be the popular question when someone tries to help him.

Instead he narrows his eyes and says cynically, "That could be a blunt force weapon, Dickie. You sure you wanna give it to me?"

"I'll take my chances," Dick answers flatly.

He's not gonna use a pair of crutches as a weapon. First of all, if he tried to swing them he'd lose his balance and fall flat on his face. More importantly, Dick's still confident Jason has no intentions on hurting him. He's just saying it because he's still pissed that Dick keeps telling him to stop killing people--which, frankly, seems like a fair request.

Besides, between their training and whatever Jason got up to in the time he was gone, Dick's pretty sure just about anything in this room could be a weapon. He's not gonna sweat it over a pair of crutches.

He props them up against the nightstand and Jason asks, "That took you all day, did it?"

"Why, did you miss me or something?"

"Yeah, but my aim is gettin' better."

It's probably not that funny, but Dick laughs anyway. And, despite being the one who told the joke in the first place, Jason gives an annoyed roll of his eyes.

* * *

Over the course of the next two days, Dick learns a couple of things.

First, accepting Alfred's advice is an awful lot easier than actually taking it is. All the words of wisdom in the world can't change the fact that Dick still has no clue how to talk to this Jason.

Now that he has the crutches he more or less has the freedom to go wherever he wants. Inside the apartment, at least. And for the most part, he sticks to avoiding Dick. He makes laps around the place and tests just how much he can push himself before either his own body makes him take a break or Dick does, and that alone seems to stretch the days into weeks.

In turn, Dick finds himself torn between giving Jason as much space as possible, and making himself available should Jason need his help with anything. Not like Jason would as if he did.

Basically he takes the same approach one might use to befriend a street cat. He doesn't go so far as to sit down on the ground with his hand out to sniff, he just tries to be there without being pushy. Which is harder when it's Jason than it probably would be with a street cat, because a street cat isn't nearly as volatile or self-destructive.

He's been persistent in getting back on both feet this whole time, to the degree where he'd definitely have made things worse by now if he were on his own. Hell, he's made things worse once or twice even with Dick around to help. And there have been occasions where Jason's bullheaded stubbornness has been a strongsuit but this isn't really one of them. Determination alone can't heal broken bones.

Dick sits on the couch, biting his tongue while Jason shuffles up and down the hallway just to see if he can, trying to remember Alfred's advice. Until Jason almost falls for a second time, and trusting him with his own wellbeing starts to feel a little too much like trusting a monkey with a hand-grenade. So he snaps and says, "Maybe you should take a break? When you fall and hit your head, I don't wanna have to explain to the EMTs what the Red Hood was doing in my apartment."

"I'm not gonna fall," Jason grouches. "Besides, the sooner I'm back on my feet, the sooner I'm out of your hair. Isn't that what we both want?"

"Not if you get yourself killed doing it," Dick says without thinking.

"Getting myself killed is so six years ago," Jason says with a scoff.

His tone is somewhat difficult to read, and Dick's not sure how much Jason's joking or not. If he's actually pissed, he usually sounds more...well, pissed. Not this casual.

Still, given the subject matter, Dick thinks maybe it's best to clarify, "That's not--I'm sorry. I didn't mean--"

"I know what you meant," Jason says, and now he sounds pissed.

Which is how he knows Jason was just kidding around a second ago, which somehow isn't any less troubling. Not that Dick's in any sort of position to judge someone else for using humor as a coping mechanism, but cracking jokes about your own death might be a little concerning.

Dick puts his palms up in front of him, a gesture of surrender, and says simply, "Okay."

Jason runs a hand through his hair before letting out a heavy breath, and at least some of his anger seems to go out with it. He mostly just sounds frustrated when he says, "I'm not made of glass, okay? So you don't have to fucking tiptoe around it like I'm gonna break if you say the wrong thing."

"Okay," Dick says again with a small nod.

The second thing Dick learns, some time later, is that he's not the only one who has nightmares. This isn't totally shocking. Still, he wishes he were more prepared to deal with it.

The thing is, they're different.

Dick knows he tends to talk in his sleep; if he didn't before he would now, Jason's woken him up because he was, apparently, shouting. But Jason doesn't shout. In fact, the only reason Dick even knows he has nightmares is because Jason forgot his water glass in the kitchen, and it's almost midnight when Dick realizes and goes to bring it to him.

When he does, Jason's already asleep.

Much like the first night he was staying here, he's thrown his blanket onto the ground and now appears to be cold. More importantly, his brow is furrowed and he tosses his head restlessly to the side.

"Jason?" Dick says.

He doesn't get an answer, and he steps further into the room. Sets the glass of water down on the nightstand. Stoops down to pick the blanket up off the floor.

He's hesitant to wake Jason up, even after he figures out the kid's having a nightmare. Frankly, Jason would probably prefer the dream to having to talk to Dick if he wakes him up anyway. So he tries a different approach, placing the blanket back over Jason and telling him, "Hey, you're okay, little wing. It's just a dream."

That used to work.

When Jason was a kid, he would get nightmares whenever there was a storm outside. He always denied being scared of the thunder, and for the most part Dick believed him, but something about the bad weather gave him bad dreams anyway.

He kept them a secret back then, too.

Anyway, quiet reassurances don't seem to work anymore. The only response he gets is a quiet whimper. Just one more thing that's changed that Dick doesn't know how to handle, he supposes.

"Okay, guess I gotta wake you up," he says.

"No," Jason whines, and for a second Dick thinks he's talking to him. He realizes he's not as Jason tosses his head back to the other side, one arm flopping over the side of the mattress with the motion. Makes another sound that's probably intended to be a word, but doesn't quite make it. It almost sounds like 'please' and it breaks Dick's heart just as half a word.

Dick sighs. Reaches a hand out. Pulls it back once before gently prodding Jason's shoulder and saying, "Jason, hey. Wake up."

He knows the second he's succeeded because that instant there's a fist colliding into his nose, and then Jason's scrambling to sit up. He's already got his fists up, ready to throw another hit or dodge an attack, and his breaths come fast and shallow. He blinks a couple of times before he seems to figure out where he is. Says, "Dick? Fuck! I thought you were--The hell you waking me up for, asshole?"

"You were," Dick says, pausing to wipe the blood away from his nose with the back of his hand. "You were having a nightmare. Thought I should wake you up."

"I was fine," Jason says peevishly.

It might be more convincing if he didn't immediately gulp down half the glass of water Dick just brought him in one sip after saying it. More convincing still if his hand wasn't shaking while he did it.

"Tell that to my nose. Are you okay?"

"I'll live."

There's a bitter irony in his voice, but Dick knows better than to ask Jason again, and he definitely knows better than to ask about the dream. He also knows being alone after a nightmare is almost as bad as the dream itself, and since Jason won't ask him to stay, he tries to think of a good reason to. It's quiet a second while he thinks, and the best he can think of is to say, "When I was a kid I had nightmares about Buzz Bee."

The randomness of the statement seems enough to distract Jason from thinking Dick's trying to sympathize using a childhood fear of cereal mascots of all things. He snorts and says, somewhat baffled, "The Cheerios mascot?"

Dick nods, maybe a little too enthusiastically, and sits down on the edge of the mattress. Jason doesn't seem to notice. His gaze is fixed on the rim of the water glass in his hands.

"Yeah, dude's unsettling," Dick says easily. "I wouldn't eat Cheerios for years."

"And this had nothing to do with Cheerios being disgusting?"

"Hm. That might've helped a little."

There's a clap of thunder outside, and Jason's eyes snap closed. Dick pretends not to notice.

He thinks maybe that's the right choice. Because a second or two of quiet go by and then Jason takes in a long breath. And he doesn't open his eyes again but he does clear his throat and say, "The Kool-Aid Man."

"Huh?"

"I was scared of the Kool-Aid Man," Jason says, like a revelation. Like it's something he hadn't remembered until just now. 

And this is something of a ridiculous conversation, definitely not one Dick was expecting to have in the middle of the night, and definitely not with Jason. But it sort of seems like it's working, so he raises an eyebrow and prompts, "Really?"

"Yeah," Jason says, like he's not sure if he's embarrassed or grateful for remembering it. "In the commercials he just kicks your wall right in, and I always thought, my old man would never believe a pitcher of flavored beverage did that."

The thunder sounds again, and Jason's perfectly still this time, and Dick shrugs and says, "You could probably take him in a fight though. I mean, you just gotta tip him over, right?"

It's not much, but Jason chuckles.

And once Jason dozes back off, Dick gets up and heads back to his couch.


	17. Zombie

On Thursday morning he goes for another run. He only goes about three miles. It's still raining outside, even if it has lightened up considerably from last night, and he hates wet socks. Like, more than anything. Nothing ruins a good mood like yucky water soaking through your sneakers. It makes your feet heavy, and it's all you can think about until they're dry again, and...

Anyway, about two miles out he gets a text to the group chat he has with Bruce and Tim. It's from Bruce, asking if they can all meet at the Cave tonight to talk. Dick shoots a quick reply saying he'll be there before repocketing the phone to finish his run.

He makes it back to the apartment and puts on a pot of coffee. Pokes his head into the bedroom to check on Jason who is, unsurprisingly, still asleep. They have to change his bandages again today, but Dick figures he can bother him about it later. Let the kid rest for a little while. So he shrugs and heads back to the living room.

He sets a little bit of time aside for putting the research he did on Kodro and his organization together. It's not in the most organized state, and he couldn't find a lot to begin with. His intention is to remedy that, because he knows Tim found stuff, and he is not about to be shown up by a fifteen year old.

That's his intention anyway, but he doesn't get a lot done before he gets distracted.

An article about the parking garage collapse takes him to a different article, takes him to a different article, takes him to the comment section. And somehow he finds himself scrolling through an internet forum debating whether or not the Red Hood is technically a Gotham City villain or not.

Someone's even gone so far as to create a couple venn diagrams comparing Hood to different members of the Rogues Gallery. Because people in Gotham apparently have nothing else to do in their free time. Dick's personal favorite is the one comparing him to Killer Croc, because the similarities section of the diagram consists solely of the following two points, 1) _Strong_ and 2) _Came into my all night diner covered in blood at 2am, bought 3+ burgers, ate all in one sitting, and Didn't Tip._

He scrolls through the page for another minute or so, until the humor of it wears off. It's actually sort of frustrating, reading about Jason from people who've never even met him before.

Not that he's not used to the media by now. He and just about everyone he knows has an alter ego for the media and the internet to dissect, not to mention everyone immediately becoming a public figure by association the second they become part of Bruce's family. Dick more or less grew up with this. Dealing with the news reporting on things that aren't their business, and people on the internet thinking they know him or his family. Everyone in the city has an opinion on everything. He's used to it.

But he is just a little bit jealous. That these total strangers get the simplicity of being certain about Jason, whatever side they think he's on. Not one of them wavers the way Dick does.

Then, not one of them knows the first thing about the real story.

Dick sighs and closes the webpage. Turns on the t.v. just for something else to think about.

Eventually Jason wakes up. While Dick's changing the old bandages for him they have a conversation about the framed photo of the Titans on Dick's wall that feels so normal Dick almost wonders if he's dreaming.

* * *

Dick is, unsurprisingly, the last one to make it to the Cave. In his defense, he is the only one not currently living in the manor above the Cave. And also he stopped for coffee on the way, but he's going to blame his lateness on the not living there part.

Tim's the first to greet him, and Dick offers him a cup of coffee in greeting. He accepts the possibly ill-advised offering from Dick and they step inside, shooting matching looks across the room at Bruce, who's staring at some report or other on one of the computer screens. Alfred stands at his side, reading over his shoulder.

Tim says, "You're late."

"Gimme the coffee back."

"You're on time," Tim says, sipping the coffee.

"That's what I thought," Dick says with a grin. Tim rolls his eyes and makes his way over towards Bruce, and Dick follows a step or two behind him. "Hey, B! Brought you a coffee."

Bruce looks up from whatever he's reading and offers a tired sort of grin, pushing his chair out to greet them. He accepts the coffee and sets it down on the table. Dick passes a citrus mint tea to Alfred. The guy always acts like he's better than Starbucks, but Dick happens to know for a fact that he loves their tea bombs.

"Okay, everyone's here. Let's get to it," Bruce says, clapping his hands together like a suburban dad about to start a backyard project. "Alfred, you wanna pull up the layout?"

A second late the big screen displays a layout of the docks, where Tim traced Kodro's shipment to. It's a layout they all know pretty well by now, actually. Criminals these days aren't super original when it comes to smuggling crap into Gotham, one or the other of them is busting someone for something at the docks like every other week.

But Bruce likes to be prepared, so they spend the next few minutes going over the layout anyway.

They know exactly which warehouse belongs to Kodro and his crew, too. Because they know things, Dick doesn't bother asking how. The window for the shipment arriving is somewhere between eight and nine at night. The crew should be there until at least ten, probably later, unloading everything.

Once they've gone over all the technical details, Bruce says, "And Tim, I want you to hang back on this one."

Under his breath, Tim grumbles, "It was _one_ essay."

"Two essays," Alfred puts in helpfully.

"What?" Dick asks.

"Bruce thinks I should cut back on Robin stuff 'till I fix my English grade," Tim says, shooting an accusatory look across at Bruce. He huffs and says, "Last I checked, you don't need to understand _The Crucible_ to fight crime, but whatever."

"School's important," Dick answers noncommittally.

"It is," Bruce tells Tim with a nod. Then, "But that's not why I want you to hang back."

Tim arches an eyebrow skeptically, but since he doesn't actually ask, Dick says for him, "Then why?"

"Kodro's not calling the shots," Bruce says. "The Joker is."

Dick frowns. "How do you know?"

It's a fair question.

Bruce is way too thorough to just leap right there from that one coincidence; Sarajevo might've been enough to make them wonder, but it doesn't confirm a connection. Especially not with Joker being locked up in Arkham. Still, it's not beyond belief that he could find a way to pull strings from in there, and Bruce wouldn't say it without being sure. Bruce doesn't say anything unless he's sure.

"Bank statements," Alfred says, pulling them up on the screen.

"Kodro's been getting payments since his arrival in Gotham from this shell corporation," Bruce says, indicating a name on the screen. Ace of Knaves, LLC. It's not exactly subtle. "Also, that warehouse he's storing his shipments in? It belongs to Jack Duggan."

"Who?" Tim asks.

"He worked with the Joker a few years back. Something to do with smuggling and a gambling ship, it was a mess," Dick explains offhandedly. It's enough for Dick to buy that Joker's involved. More to the ground than anyone else, Dick says, "What's he up to?"

Bruce was able to connect him to this by a shell corporation and an old accomplice, that's way too easy. He's smart enough to hide that crap, if that's what he wanted. Alfred says, just as Dick thinks it, "He wants us to know he's involved."

"Yeah, but involved in what?" Dick says, folding his arms. "Gunrunning? It doesn't exactly scream Clown Prince."

Weapons trafficking is, by Joker standards, pretty boring. The connection would explain how the operation was able to exist in Gotham for so long without detection, Kodro definitely wouldn't have had the resources for that on his own. In fact, if that kid in Jason's apartment building hadn't tipped him off, Dick has no idea how long the operation could've existed before they noticed it.

There's also the apparent hit out on Red Hood, but again, that doesn't quite add up. It's not Joker's style. If he wanted Jason dead, he'd do it himself. He already has. Why go through the effort of bringing this Kodro guy all the way to Gotham?

"There has to be more to it than that," Tim says.

"I agree," Bruce says with a small nod. He turns to Dick and says, "Tell me more about the parking garage. Did Kodro say anything to you?"

"He didn't even know I was there until I stopped J-Red Hood from shooting him," Dick says, offering an easy shrug. "I wasn't there more than five minutes before the place came down."

It's possible he said something to Jason, but Dick doubts it heavily. Jason didn't seem like he was in a super talkative mood at the time and besides, he sounded pretty convinced that Joker wasn't involved when Dick talked to him about it. Whatever involvement there is, Jason doesn't know about it.

Which, Dick is realizing, means he gets to be the one to tell him about it. That conversation should go swell.

"You said the building went down because he wanted to kill Red Hood," Bruce prompts.

"Which means Joker wants to kill Red Hood," Tim says. He picks absently at the cardboard sleeve on his coffee cup. Adds thoughtfully, "Revenge for last year? Or maybe he's been screwing with Joker's business too much?"

Bruce shoots a glance over at Alfred before turning back to Dick and Tim and saying, almost wary except it's Bruce, "Actually now might be a good time to talk about him."

"Joker? We are."

"Red Hood," Bruce clarifies.

There's no way he misses the almost conspiratorial look Tim shoots in Dick's direction, which Dick resolutely ignores. Bruce doesn't know Jason's in his apartment, there's no way he'd be this cryptic if that's where he was going with this. No, Dick thinks he knows what Bruce is going to say, and he asks anyway, "What about him?"

Bruce says, like ripping off a band-aid, "It's Jason."

Shocker. Dick is shocked.

Sarcasm aside, he actually is somewhat shocked. He was beginning to expect that Bruce would never say anything. Why he's electing right now to say something is beyond him.

"Jason," Tim repeats slowly. Then, dubiously, "Derulo?"

"What? Why would it be Jason Derulo?" Dick says in a half-whisper, looking over at Tim slightly baffled.

"Todd," Bruce says flatly, before Tim can justify his response. "Jason Todd."

Tim's skepticism only doubles at the clarification. Dick's deciding whether or not he's supposed to pretend to be shocked, but Tim's enough of a distraction to give him a second to think it over. He says, disbelieving, "Jason Todd? He _died_."

"I know," Bruce says, somehow conveying the weight of that fact with just those two words.

"So he's...a zombie?" Tim says, one part sarcasm and two parts genuine confusion.

"I--No, he's not a zombie," Bruce says, one part confused and two parts frustrated. Not with Tim, just in general. He runs a hand through his hair and admits with a heavy sigh, "I'm not sure what he is."

"Jason," Dick asserts.

Bruce nods. Dick's not sure if he thinks it was a question, or if he's agreeing with the statement it actually was. He offers an explanation, "Ra's al Ghul brought him back. With the Lazarus Pit."

It's enough, at least, for Dick to muster some semblance of surprise. Jason hadn't known who brought him back. The involvement of the League of Assassins is both shocking and a little troubling. He can't imagine what they would've wanted with Jason, enough to raise him from the dead. So he echoes the first question that pops into his head, which is, "Why?"

"He said he felt responsible," Bruce says, with the tone of someone who knows more than a little about what that feels like. "He hired Joker to distract us."

Dick asks, like the accusation it probably is, "How long have you known?"

"Last year," Bruce says. "Look, I should've told you sooner."

"Yeah, you should have. So why didn't you?"

"I felt responsible," he answers with a shrug, mirroring the words from a moment ago. He shakes his head and says, "It didn't seem fair to you, to tell you Jason was back if it wasn't really him. I wanted to bring him home first."

Tim sounds pissed too, and he never even met Jason. "Why're you telling us now then?"

"Because I was wrong," Bruce says with some resignation. "I made mistakes that put Jason in danger, and he paid the price for it. I've spent the last year trying to figure out how to make it better, and I can't. And now that might all happen again, but I can't even find him to warn him."

Guilt is like wet shoes, Dick finds himself thinking.

It's no surprise that Bruce blames himself, or that he spent the last year trying to figure out a way to fix it. That's more or less what Alfred suggested when Dick asked him the same question, and Alfred knows Bruce better than anyone. And isn't it just like Bruce to think he has to deal with this entirely on his own.

He and Jason really are more alike than either of them will ever admit. That stubborn sense of independence as a defense mechanism, but it's not them they think they're defending, it's everyone else. They'll both break their own backs carrying the weight when it could just as easily be shared.

Dick takes in an uncertain breath before announcing, "I can."

"What?"

"I can find him," Dick says. "Actually, I maybe already know where he is."

At least Bruce seems to be aware that getting mad about secret keeping here would be a tad hypocritical. He just raises his eyebrows and says, "You do? Where is he?"

"He's sorta...been staying at my place," Dick says, scratching a phantom itch at the back of his neck. 

"How did you get him to do that?" Bruce asks.

And the skepticism is more than called for, because Jason made it perfectly clear he wouldn't be associating with Dick if he were physically capable of leaving.

"You remember way back when, when a parking garage fell on us? Well he sort of, might have broken a leg pushing me out of the way of some cement," Dick says, taking a slow sip of his coffee before continuing, "I got him to agree to come with me, but he made me promise to leave you out of it."

"How is he?"

For a simple three word question, it contains multitudes.

Bruce is asking about the injury, sure, but that's not all he's asking. How is he, as in is he someone they can recognize or someone else. How is he, as in is he talking to Dick or is he acting like a stranger. How is he, as in of course he's not okay right now but will he be. Honestly, there's too many interpretations to the question for Dick to properly answer.

"Alive," Dick answers ironically.


	18. Safety Mission

Their little meeting is cut short when Bruce notices the timeclock on the bottom corner of the computer screen and has to remind Tim that it's a school night and he should be in bed, like, an hour ago. And Dick should probably be leaving soon anyway, so he walks Tim up, leaving Alfred and Bruce behind to talk about whatever it is Alfred and Bruce talk about.

They walk for a minute in quiet, and in that quiet it occurs to Dick that he hasn't, over the past few days, really had the time to check in on Tim. And obviously he has Alfred and Bruce, who are paying enough attention to know he's flunking English. He doesn't doubt they've been checking in.

He asks conversationally, "How're you holding up, kid?"

Tim shoots a sideways glance at Dick, like he's trying to figure out if the question's a trap. When did everyone in Dick's life become so paranoid? Actually, no that's nothing new.

"Fine," Tim shrugs.

It's not totally convincing, and Dick reminds him, "You don't have to be fine, y'know."

"I know," he says, with a petulance that's probably rivaled only by Jason's.

Which isn't the typical response of a person that's actually fine, but hey.

They walk a few more steps in reticent silence, until Dick begins to whistle the tune of _Whatcha Say_. In part because now he's got Jason Derulo stuck in his head, but also because the best way to get Tim to talk to you is to make him want you to shut up. At least, that's a method that works pretty well for Dick, anyway.

He doesn't whistle more than a few bars before they come to an abrupt halt in one of the empty hallways. Tim huffs and says, "Neither of you could've told me it was him?"

It takes him a second to remember what Tim's referring to, but when he does his shoulders drop with a hint of guilt.

Here Dick's been pissed at Bruce for not telling him things, and then keeping the exact same secret from Tim. Granted, Bruce kept it for a lot longer. And granted, Dick's reasoning has more to do with keeping his word than anything. He could explain that promising to leave Batman out if it, by extension, was promising to leave Robin out of it too.

But of course Tim's not going to see it like that.

Tim who's a little too used to being nothing more than an afterthought to his family. Who spent the last few days dealing with cryptic answers and probably watching Bruce become increasingly concerned the longer the news went without mentioning the Red Hood.

"Shit," Dick says with a sigh. "I'm sorry, Tim."

"I mean, it's not like I knew him," Tim says, kicking absently at the run on the floor. Dick's seen him stand up to bad guys three times his size without faltering, but he gets one deserved apology and he's already backtracking. "I know it's different for me."

"No, we should've told you."

"I guess we're all a little too used to secret keeping, huh?" he says with a light chuckle.

"Old habits or whatever," Dick agrees. And it is a habit. After a point, it's easier to not tell people things than it is to tell them. But there's people and then there's family. Dick puts a hand on his shoulder and says, "I'll do better, Tim. You don't deserve to be kept outta the loop like that."

He offers a small nod, a nonverbal acceptance of the apology, and Dick draws his hand back in favor of leaning back against the wall. Tim folds his arms, like there's something still weighing on him. Before Dick can ask, he uncrosses his arms, burying his hands in his hoodie pockets. Says like a question, "Bruce said he was dangerous."

"Jason?"

"You know I studied you guys," Tim says. "You and Jason, after Bruce let me be Robin."

"Yeah," Dick nods. He offers a smile and says, "That was the first sign you'd be a smarter Robin than me. I never studied."

"It shows," Tim cracks.

"Oof. You cut me deep, Tim."

Tim rolls his eyes with a reluctant smile, pacing a step away and then back. More somber he continues, "Well, I know Jason was...angry. But he used to sneak out to give food to the homeless kids around Crime Alley. And it wasn't on patrol, so that wasn't something he did to be Robin, it was just something he _did."_

Right, Dick almost forgot about that. Bruce had asked him to follow Jason wherever he was sneaking out to when that started; the little bastard didn't even tell them where he was going, Bruce had been worried about him.

"Yeah, he was a good kid," Dick says.

"So how can he be dangerous?" Tim asks skeptically. "How can a Robin be dangerous?"

And he can't exactly blame Tim for asking, Dick's been asking himself the same question. It's been hard enough trying to conflate this new Jason with the old one he knew, the one who was a flawed human being with a big heart.

But Tim doesn't know the flawed human being, he knows the Robin. He only knows Jason through stories, and it's not like people are eager to share the bad stories after a kid gets murdered. Bruce doesn't like to talk about Jason, and anytime Tim's asked Dick, he's only had the heart to share the good things.

Looking back in memory tends to turn things like anger or spite into passion, and recklessness into courage. To Gotham City he's a hero, and that's the only impression Tim's had the chance to hear. Tough to conflate Robin with the Red Hood.

He sighs and says, "You can do a lot with the training we got, Tim. Just 'cause we choose to use it for good doesn't mean it's always gonna be like that."

"I know that," Tim says impatiently.

Because not asking how he can be dangerous, not really. He's asking how he became dangerous.

Dick can't really know why Tim's asking. Whether he wants to know if that future is a possibility for either of the other two Robins, or whether he wants to know how much he should worry about Jason being around, or something else entirely.

"The Lazarus Pit changes people, and we don't really know what else he's been through these last few years," Dick says, but it doesn't feel like the right answer. He doesn't want to blame everything Jason is now on some mystical green pit, and actually, Jason very clearly doesn't want him to either. He runs a hand through his hair and amends his answer, "It doesn't matter."

Tim quirks an eyebrow. "It doesn't?"

"No," Dick says, more sure of it now. "If Bruce has taught me anything, it's that we don't give up on family...That, and karate."

He punctuates it with a cartoonish karate chop at the air, and Tim just scoffs and says, "You're an idiot."

"Careful. I'm an idiot who can do karate," Dick says, earning a reluctant laugh from Tim. He starts back down the hall once more and says, "Alright, c'mon. You'll never pass English if you're falling asleep in class tomorrow."

"I'll never pass English anyway," Tim says, following him down the hall anyway.

Dick hums in thought before telling him, "Maybe I could take a look at that essay for you? I was more of a History kid, but I never got below a C."

"I'm instilled with confidence in you," Tim says flatly. Then as an afterthought, "You were not a History kid, you fucking jock."

"I didn't fail English, my point still stands."

"Whatever."

* * *

By the time he makes it back to the apartment, he's got to be honest, he's half expecting to find Jason pulling some new stupid stunt to make everything worse again. But he's relieved to find a complete lack of popped stitches, dental floss sutures, or collapsed lungs. Just Jason sitting in the armchair in the living room.

It looks like he fell asleep reading that book. His head rests in one of his hands with the book open in his lap, his leg propped up on the coffee table. If it weren't for the splint made of a broken chair, it would look like a totally normal scene.

Dick shuts the door behind him carefully, not wanting to disturb Jason. And he's gotten pretty skilled at moving quietly over the years, but apparently Jason's a light sleeper, because something manages to wake him up anyway.

Dick offers a half wave in greeting, murmuring, "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."

"Mph," Jason answers eloquently. He scrubs a hand over his face and moves to sit up, saying, "Time is it?"

"Not that late."

He takes a tentative step further into the room. Maybe he should wait until tomorrow to talk to Jason, let him get at least a little more decent rest first. If he's having trouble sleeping now, Dick can't imagine knowing the Joker's after him again will help. And maybe he should wait until after they bring in Kodro, just to prevent whatever attempt Jason will no doubt make to be a part of catching the guy--or worse, to shoot the guy before they can catch him.

Jason, the perceptive bastard, makes up his mind for him. Shoots him a guarded look and asks, "Something on your mind?"

There's that paranoia again. Does it make it better or worse, Dick wonders, that this time there's actually good reason for it?

"Can we talk for a minute?" he asks. Jason nods, and Dick moves to take a seat on the couch. He misses the storm from earlier, his uncertain silence is too obvious now without the rain as backdrop. After a second he holds up the essay Tim gave him and says, "Wanna read this for me?"

That's not what he was supposed to say.

"What is it?"

Dick shrugs noncommittally. Says a little awkwardly, "Tim's _Crucible_ essay."

"You want me to read the Replacement's homework?" Jason asks, sounding uncertain as to whether he should be offended or just plain confused.

"No," Dick admits, looking down at the paper in his hands. "I told Tim I'd help him with it. I just don't wanna tell you what I have to tell you."

What doesn't make this any easier is the way that, just like that, Jason pushes himself to sit the rest of the way up, already alert. On guard against some unperceived potential threat.

And that's the thing. Dick hasn't even told him anything yet, and he's already ready for a fight. Because he's always, to some degree, waiting for one to happen. Dick can't honestly say for certain if Jason's ever really had the chance to feel totally safe in his life, even just for a few minutes. He grew up in Crime Alley, he had Willis for a father, he _died_ , came back and did god knows what for five years before coming back to Gotham....

Dick just wants him to feel at least a little safe, while he's healing at least. And the poor kid can't even get that much.

"What do you have to tell me?" Jason asks, with a casual air that doesn't match with the tension in his shoulders. Dick apparently doesn't answer fast enough either, because he says warily, "Tell me."

"Okay, just," Dick says. "Just don't freak out on me, alright?"

"Am I gonna have a reason to?" Jason challenges.

Yeah, that's kind of the point. Dick wouldn't put it past him to think he can take this into his own hands, and absolutely no fight ends well for the guy who goes into it with pre-broken bones.

He starts, "I went down to the manor."

"I figured that much," Jason says sharply. "You got the Replacement's homework somewhere, Dickie, duh. Get to the point."

"Actually, I was there to talk to Bruce."

And okay, it's possible that Dick's hesitance to admit this doesn't make him seem like the most innocent person on the planet. Which is probably why it's so easy for Jason to leap directly to, "Did you tell him about me?"

Fat lotta good that practice in keeping secrets actually does him when it comes to family. Dick holds a hand up and says, "Hang on, Ja--"

"Fuck! You did, didn't you? I asked you for one thing, Dick. One thing," Jason says, and Dick realizes for him to sound so betrayed, he must've actually trusted him in the first place. Keeps trusting him, actually, despite what he says.

"He's not coming here or anything."

"Why'd you tell him?"

"Because," Dick says. He's already prepared for Jason not to believe him when he says, "He was worried about you."

Yep, there it is. Jason laughs.

"Worried," he repeats, shooting a look over his shoulder. Like he half expects Bruce to be standing there already. He looks back at Dick and says, with the tone one might use to explain something to a particularly slow child, "No, see worrying implies caring, Dick. And he's just not capable."

"He does care," Dick says insistently. Or at least, he tries to. But Jason blows a raspberry every time Dick opens his mouth, so it goes a little more like, "He does--He--Jason stop it. He does care."

"Keep tellin' yourself that, golden boy," Jason says, setting the book down on the arm of the chair and standing up. He wobbles a little, grabs one of his crutches from where it's propped against the side of the chair, then turns to Dick and says, "The general doesn't think to worry about the soldiers until they go A.W.O.L. Because then they might just be thinking for themselves, and _that's_ what they're really worried about."

"We're not soldiers, Jason."

"Whatever you say. Hey, tell Bruce I said hi, and uh, he's a massive dick. Okay?" Jason says, clapping Dick on the shoulder before picking up the second crutch and starting for the door.

Dick rolls his eyes. "Where are you going?"

"Telling you would kind of defeat the purpose," Jason says flatly.

"You're not leaving," Dick says.

"Yeah? Come and stop me," he answers, like he wants Dick to fight him.

It's not an invitation Dick's about to accept, but he gets up and starts after Jason anyway. It's not like he can get very far right now in the first place, but Dick says, "Jason, stop. I still have to talk to you."

Jason rounds on him with surprising speed for a guy on crutches. Snarls, "I don't want to hear anything you have to say, Dick."

"It's important," Dick persists.

"Like I could trust a word outta your mouth."

"I'm trying to protect you."

"God, you're worse than Bruce," Jason says with a sardonic laugh. He shakes his head, says, "I don't need your protection. I sure as shit can't trust you. And you don't need or trust me, so what the fuck d'you care if I leave?"

He wants to argue that he does trust Jason, but the truth is, as much as he still loves him, he doesn't trust him. He wants to argue that of course he cares if Jason leaves, he only just got Jason back, and he's not prepared to lose him again so damn soon. But he falls short, and in the end he just says, "It's not safe."

"That's sweet," Jason says, in a tone that very much doesn't sound like he thinks it's sweet. "I can take care of myself, thanks."

"The Joker hired Kodro to kill you," Dick says. "That's what I've been trying to tell you."

It's not the reaction he was expecting for a number of reasons, but Jason drops the crutches in favor of grabbing the front of Dick's t-shirt. Spinning him around and slamming into the wall there before growling, "You're not funny, Dick."

"I'm not joking."

"I told you there's not a connection," Jason says, like a warning. "You think making that shit up is gonna stop me from leaving, asshole?"

"I wish I was making it up, Jason, believe me."

He looks Jason in the eyes as he says it, and Jason must read something in his expression that says he's telling the truth, because his grip on Dick's t-shirt loosens. He doesn't fully let go, which Dick suspects has more to do with having dropped the crutches than with the remaining anger visible in his expression.

He says, "Fine. I believe you. I'm still leaving."

"Going where, exactly?"

"To do what I should've done in the first place," Jason says, finally pushing away from Dick to stand on his own.

"Jason," Dick says.

But Jason's not listening. He stoops down to retrieve the fallen crutches from their place on the ground, loses his balance and Dick steadies him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Jason," he says again, picking one of the crutches up and holding it out to him. "What are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna kill the Joker," Jason says, like it's obvious.

"You're not gonna kill the Joker."

"Dick if you tell me he doesn't deserve it I will break your fucking kneecaps, I swear to god," he says.

And Dick believes him. But the ethics of killing someone, even someone like the Joker, isn't exactly what was on Dick's mind when he said Jason couldn't do it. He clears his throat and says, "How are you gonna kill him? You're gonna fight your way past the Arkham guards? Whack him over the head with one of your crutches?"

"I'll do what I have to," Jason says icily.

"You can't--I'm not gonna let that happen," Dick says firmly.

"Why not? He started it."

"What, so you're ending it?"

"Yes! I never wanted this, Dick. _He_ did this, he made me like this," Jason says desperately, his knuckles white where his hand grips the single crutch holding him up. "Tell me what's so wrong with me finishing it?"

Dick takes in a deep breath just for the sake of letting it out again. Pinches the bridge of his nose for a second before tossing his hand in the air and asking, "Why do you wanna do it now? You're barely standing here."

"Why do you wanna stop me? You could've been killed in that garage, not to mention all the other shit he's done to you and Bruce," Jason says, with a lot of passion for someone who claims not to care about Dick or Bruce. He huffs and adds, with a hint of irony, "Besides apparently this town ain't big enough for the both of us. Now or never."

"That's not--Me and Bruce aren't gonna let anything else happen to you. We've got this."

"No offense, Dick, but I've already seen how counting on you two goes," Jason answers, taking a step back. "And I didn't ask to be brought back, alright? But it has to have been for a reason."

"This isn't it," he says. Jason doesn't look convinced. More than that, Dick doesn't think he'll ever be convinced. But that's the future, and this is right now, so Dick asks, "Can't you just wait? Until you're better?"

"I've let Joker live long enough already."

"Come on, Jason, think! Bruce has lost fights to the Joker in perfect health, with us backing him. You think you're just gonna waltz in there on your own, broken leg, busted rib, and kill him like it's nothing?"

"I don't have to be on my own."

That answer hangs in the air between them for a long moment.

Dick's not sure what makes him more uncomfortable. The fact that Jason almost looks like he regrets making the offer, like he feels guilty for it in some way. Or the fact that, for just a second, Dick considers taking it. For the little boy from Crime Alley, and for every other kid that Joker's ever orphaned or injured or killed. Dick thinks about taking it.

But the second passes, and he shakes his head. Says, "I can't do that, Jason. No."

"I know," Jason says, looking away. "I know you can't."

It's not an accusation this time, just a simple acceptance. Dick takes in a breath and answers, "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too," Jason says, like he means it.

Dick realizes what he's actually apologizing for a second too late to dodge the blow, and a heavy fist connects with his face. He has just enough time to see Jason stumbling and catching himself on the wall before things fade to black.


	19. Jacket

Dick wakes up on his living room floor, the sound of rain coming down outside the only sign that time has passed. No clue how much of it. There's a not so subtle ache in his skull, even despite the throw pillow that's been tucked under his head.

He pushes himself up onto his hands, glancing less than optimistically around the room. No sign of Jason. Awesome.

He scrambles first for the window, peering out at the street below. He doesn't know how long he was out for, but it's not like Jason's exactly fast right now. Hobbling around on one leg, in the rain. Maybe Dick will be able to spot him down on the sidewalk, hailing a taxi or something...Nope, not one single sign of him. Awesomer.

Dick pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials Bruce. He's sure he'll get an earful for it later, from both of them, but whatever. He's got to stop Jason from doing something totally stupid right now.

Bruce answers after the first ring. "Dick?"

"Jason's gone," Dick says hurriedly. "He's on his way to try and kill the Joker, we gotta stop him before he gets hurt."

And he _will_ get hurt, one way or another. If he even makes it to Arkham, the guards won't hesitate to fight him. If he makes it past them, he'll at the very least have the element of surprise, but frankly Dick doesn't like his odds. And all of that's if he even makes it to Arkham.

He hasn't walked farther than the distance from the bedroom to the kitchen in a week. There's a reason for that.

"And you let him leave?" Bruce asks, incredulously.

"Yes, Bruce, I'm completely stupid," Dick says, laying on heavy with the sarcasm since Bruce can't be there to see it on his face. "He knocked me out. I don't know how long he's been gone."

"Shit."

"My sentiments exactly."

Dick chances one last look out the window before turning away, pacing a few steps toward the door. Jason's leather jacket is visible on the foot of the bed through the open bedroom door. Great, he's out in this rain with just a t-shirt. If he gets a cold or hypothermia or something it'll be his own damn fault.

Dick retrieves the jacket to bring with him for Jason when they find him anyway.

He can hear movement on the other end of the line, and then Bruce is saying, "I can meet you outside Arkham. You've got a better understanding of his mental state, what's our play? Do we have a decent chance of talking him down?"

There's something at the edge of Bruce's words that almost sounds hopeful. He doesn't want this to end in a fight.

Neither does Dick, but what he and Bruce want won't make a difference. And Dick's pretty sure he just tried talking Jason down and, needless to say, it was less than effective. He can already feel the bruise forming on his jaw. So with a reluctant sigh he says, "I don't know, B. He's convinced he has to do this."

"I guess we should've seen this coming," he hears Bruce say, but Dick's not sure it's meant for him. He says, "You said he was injured, how quickly can he be moving?"

"Uh," Dick says thoughtfully, patting the front of his jacket. He feels the car keys still in the front pocket, which means Jason's not travelling by car. At least, not Dick's car. Taxi, maybe? He shakes his head, starting for the door and saying, "Mobility's limited. He broke his leg pretty bad, and there's at least one broken rib, too. He can't walk all the way to Arkham, but he didn't take my car."

"Hang on, I'm linking Alfred in," Bruce says, and then, "Alf, bus routes from Dick's place to Arkham. What's our best bet?"

"I'm afraid there's not many, however there is a subway line which would take you a few blocks South of Arkham."

"Can you forward the route to--"

"Already done, sir."

Dick's phone beeps at the same time, and he puts the call on speaker to check the screen. Alfred's sent the information to him, too. He skims over it, shoots a glance at the clock, and says, "The B train left five minutes ago. He's on that one."

If he's taking the subway he has to be. The train before it was an hour ago, and Dick's sure he wasn't out that long.

"He'll have to transfer at Coventry Station," Alfred says.

"We can cut him off there," Dick says.

"We'd better," Bruce answers grimly. "Jason's skilled, even beyond what I taught him. I don't see a broken leg stopping him from sneaking into Arkham, if he's determined to do it."

"Which he is."

"I'll meet you at the station."

"West entrance," Alfred says primly. "You can cut him off by the stairwell with a small chance of civilian interference, the station is rarely crowded at this hour. And gentlemen?"

"Yeah, Alf?"

"Bring him home."

Dick hangs up the phone when he makes it to his car. Starts the engine and drives.

His mind wanders as he drives. Bruce is right, Jason has the skill to sneak past the security at Arkham. It won't be easy in his state, but something not being easy has never been enough to stop him before and it won't be now.

He thinks back to that night in the parking garage. To the Red Hood whose first concern when trapped beneath a slab of bone shattering concrete was to ask where his target was. To the way he'd actually seemed more pissed about Dick telling him Kodro got away than he was about the rest of his situation. Bleeding out under a pile of rubble.

And he knows that if anything's going to stop Jason, it's not going to be his own suffering.

Dick parks on the sidewalk out front of the west entrance to Coventry Station. There's still a good eleven minutes before Jason's train is supposed to arrive but if they're wrong and he's not on the train, then they're already too late.

The street is deceptively calm.

He ditches his civvies in the backseat, because this might be more of a job for Nightwing than Dick Grayson. Slips his domino over his eyes before stepping out of the car and barreling towards the station.

Bruce is already waiting inside. Dick's convinced Bruce does have a superpower and that it's generating shadowy corners, because there seems to be one wherever he needs it. He's standing ominously in one such corner by the stairwell, where a lightbulb's gone out, with his focus on the tracks, awaiting the train.

"Wait for the other passengers to clear before engaging," Bruce says on Dick's arrival.

"Got it."

"He won't be happy you called me."

"I'm not happy he punched me in the face," Dick deadpans.

Bruce nods to the jacket in Dick's hand. Raises an eyebrow and says, "But you brought him a jacket anyway."

"It's raining," Dick says, a tad defensively. The last thing Jason needs right now is to catch a cold.

He looks back out at the empty tracks, absently watching a rat scurry through a crevice in the wall on the other side. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Bruce looking at him, evaluating. After a second, Bruce looks towards the tracks too and says like he's made up his mind on something important, "I'll hang back. You talk to him."

"I tried talking," Dick says with a frown. "He doesn't wanna hear anything from me."

Dick's spent the last several days saying the wrong thing to Jason, and that was just trying to get him to sit down, or take a painkiller. This is something else entirely, and Dick's pretty sure he can safely trust that he won't say the right thing.

Besides, Dick exhausted all his main points back at the apartment. They didn't work there, why should they work here? At the very least if Bruce tries to talk Jason down he'll bring a different perspective to the conversation.

"I'll step in if it doesn't work, but just give it a try."

Dick opens his mouth to argue some more, although he's not totally sure which point he plans on arguing. He doesn't want this to end in a fight either, which means one of them does have to talk to Jason. Anyway, whatever Dick's about to say is cut off by the garbled station speaker system, announcing the arrival of the train in five short minutes.

He abandons the argument in favor of gazing expectantly down the tunnel.

They wait the next few minutes in what would be the usual stakeout silence, if not for the fact that Dick can usually never be silent on a stakeout, and that it's Jason they're laying in wait for.

The train pulls into the station.

It's not particularly crowded. Between the storm and the late hour, not many people will be travelling. A pair of drunken college students heading home from a night of partying step off first, followed by a tired looking man in a janitor's uniform. Then, "Jason!"

"Crap." He at the very least seems to know he can't outrun Dick, because he doesn't immediately try to bolt. Just puffs out a resigned sort of sigh and starts steadily towards the stairwell with a, "Don't try and stop me."

Dick steps in front of him to block his path. Shakes his head and says earnestly, "You know I have to."

"You gonna ask if I wanna do this the easy way or the hard way?" Jason asks with a scoff.

"There's never an easy way with you," Dick says simply. It's meant to be a joke, a playful rib to maybe lighten the tension. But Jason flashes a grin that's more bitter than amused and looks away with a slight nod. Dick takes in a deep breath and tries again. "I just wanna talk. Can we do that?"

Jason shoots a look over his shoulder, and when he looks back he's not looking at Dick but just behind him. Towards the stairwell.

Plotting the quickest escape route. But he doesn't have the element of surprise this time, and whichever way he goes, he won't be fast enough on just one leg to get away. He knows that. He huffs and moves to step around Dick, testing for a reaction more than actually trying to walk that way.

Dick, predictably he's sure, steps to the side so he's still blocking the path.

Jason's shoulders drop. Not quite defeated, but resignedly tolerating, for the moment. He says, matter of fact, "You can't stop me."

That's debatable, but Dick's not really looking to stop Jason. He's hoping he won't have to, because Jason will see reason and stop himself.

"You don't wanna do this."

"Actually I do."

"It's a bad idea."

"No, trying a Leap of Faith into the dumpsters out back of the Taco Bell was a bad idea," Jason says. "This? This is inevitable."

"Okay, maybe it is," Dick says, taking a tentative step closer. One that Jason mirrors with a wary step back. So Dick halts and puts his hands up, in what's hopefully a reassuring gesture. "But maybe it isn't."

Jason offers a disbelieving scoff as he turns, shooting one more cagey glance over his shoulder. He must not find what he's looking for. When he looks back at Dick he starts to say something, then cuts himself off. Frowns, eyeing the jacket Dick's still holding in his left hand. Asks, "Did you bring me a jacket?"

"It's raining," Dick repeats, a tad more defensively.

"Fuck," Jason says under his breath. "You actually give a shit, don't you?"

"I...Yeah, duh."

It's not like he's spent the last however many days it's been trying to get Jason to actually understand that or anything. Of fucking course Dick gives a shit. They're family. What, exactly about a jacket solidifies that he isn't totally sure. But if Jason actually finally gets it, Dick'll take the win, wherever it comes from.

Jason just stares at him for a minute. Like he can't quite make sense of it.

Then he swears, like a driver with road rage might do when a detour comes up on the road ahead. Shifts back another step, looking around the station indecisively.

And Dick can't figure it out, so he asks out loud, "Jay, what're you thinking?"

"Nothing. That just makes this a little harder."

"Makes what a little--Don't," Dick says, connecting the dots. Jason swings one of the crutches at him, and Dick catches it about three inches away from his face. With an irritable sigh that he thinks is justified in this scenario, Dick asks, "Seriously, dude?"

Jason gives him a look that might be apologetic. If not for the fact that he then shifts all his weight onto his good leg, so he can swing the remaining crutch out and knock Dick's feet out from under him. The metal slams into the side of Dick's knee at just the right angle, and his leg buckles. Jason stumbles slightly too, but recovers before he can actually fall, and then he's heading...back towards the tracks?

For the east entrance. He's probably thinking that if Dick has backup, they'll be waiting at the top of the stairs.

To Jason's credit, he's actually faster on those damn crutches than Dick was expecting. That is until, in his hurry, he missteps and loses his balance. Pitches forward, and Bruce swoops in to catch him before he can fall down into the empty tracks and hurt himself.

Unfortunately, Bruce showing up doesn't exactly do much to calm Jason down. Matter of fact, he takes the split second to recognize that it's Bruce who caught him, and then punches him straight in the jaw.

He draws a fist back to hit him a second time, but Bruce catches him by the wrist before he can. Says, "I don't want to fight you, Jason."

"That's rich."

"We're trying to help you," Dick says, stepping closer.

"You stay outta this," Jason snarls. "And you get off'a me."

He pulls on his wrist, trying to yank it free from Bruce's grip. When that doesn't work, he grabs onto Bruce's arm with his free hand and turns, slamming his shoulder into Bruce's chest in a maneuver that, if Jason were actually in any fighting condition, would flip Bruce onto the ground in front of him. As it is, he just manages to throw Bruce's balance off, but he does manage to get his wrist free.

In the process, he almost falls over himself. This time it's Dick that steps in to catch him.

Jason's gratitude for that favor takes the form of a fucking headbutt, which shouldn't surprise Dick at this point, but whatever. He stumbles back and Jason ends up hitting the floor anyway.

Dick holds out a hand to help him up and, like the idiot little brother Jason actually is, he takes and hand and instead pulls Dick onto the floor with him. It might even be funny if it were any other circumstance, but as it is, Dick hits the ground with a muttered curse. This night is not going according to plan. For anyone.

Jason gets to his feet first. Makes another attempt to leave, but the crutches are still in their place on the ground, and Bruce is still in his way. He swings, misses, stumbles.

"You're going to hurt yourself," Bruce says. Dick could've told him Jason wouldn't listen.

"Have we done enough hitting each other yet?" Dick asks as he gets back up to his feet. "Can we talk now?"

"Just stay away from me."

"If I was gonna give up on you, I'd've done it by now," Dick says pointedly.

Jason just glares, eyes flitting back and forth between Dick and Bruce like a caged animal. Which is probably why Dick should've seen it coming that Jason would try and chew his own leg off. Figuratively speaking.

Literally speaking, he makes the only exit he can with Dick and Bruce standing there. Which is to drop back down to the ground and quickly lower himself onto the tracks. And then he's making a break for the other side.

Not without Dick and Bruce tailing him, but it turns out their haste isn't totally necessary. Jason doesn't actually make it all that far.

He manages to hop a step or two on one leg, but that's not the most efficient method of travel, and it's definitely not quick enough to lose them. Whether he's thinking the splint is a good enough substitute for a working leg, or just thinking he can just deal with whatever damage it causes is unclear. What is clear is that he tries to take a step with his right leg and goes down like a sack of potatoes.

* * *

It's almost two hours later that they're all gathered in the Batcave in a sort of twisted family reunion.

Well actually, Jason's asleep in the Cave's version of a medbay. Alfred sedated him. Which he'll pointedly not thank them for later, Dick's sure, but Jason broke the damn split in that fall and Alfred had to re-set the bone. Which, Dick can only guess, is a far easier experience for somebody who's not actually conscious to experience it.

He also, surprise of all surprises, managed to tear those infernal stitches again.

The rest of them are collected around the table. Well, Dick's sitting on the table, with an eye on the open medbay door. Alfred and Bruce are standing around it, not sitting down. None of them are talking.

It's been a long night.

"The important thing," Alfred says, breaking the long silence. "Is that you got him here."

"Not soon enough," Bruce and Dick say at once.

He's pretty sure Alfred rolls his eyes.

"On the bright side, at least he got the bone set by someone who knows what he's doing," Dick says, with a tone lighter than he feels. "And not, y'know, some bumbling amateur in a grimy safehouse."

"I don't disagree. However, from what I could tell it seemed to have been healing nicely, before this unpleasantness," Alfred says. "No signs of infection. You've been doing remarkably well."

Dick scoffs. "Yeah, until I screwed it all up."

"Beg pardon?"

Alfred heard him, he just wants Dick to elaborate for some reason. Dick doesn't really want to. He already knows they'll both try to tell him this wasn't his fault, and frankly he doesn't want to hear it right now.

In the long run he knows it's not totally his fault.

However much he would like to blame himself, he knows Jason's an adult. He can make his own choices. And those choices don't hinge solely on what Dick does or doesn't do right.

In the shorter run, though, this is totally Dick's fault. For a number of reasons.

"This wasn't your fault, Dick," Bruce tells him gently.

"Which part? He warned me, back at the garage, before the roof caved. He shouldn't've had to push me out of the way, but I didn't _believe_ him. That's on me, Bruce," Dick said, pushing himself off the table to pace a step away. "He got the drop on me tonight because I wasn't paying attention, and if he'd hurt someone--if he was hurt, that would've been on me too."

Once he's done with his little rant, Dick huffs out a heavy breath and sits back down atop the table. Alfred and Bruce look at each other, exchange some sort of silent communication that Dick's frankly too tired to bother trying to decipher right now, and then Bruce moves to sit down next to him.

"Look, I've made my fair share of mistakes," Bruce says.

"Many, many mistakes," Alfred cuts in helpfully, and Dick feels a hint of a smile despite himself.

"Yeah. The point is," Bruce says, sparing an indignant look over at Alfred before turning back to Dick. "It'd just be hubris to expect yourself never to mess up. You're human. Actually, I've seen plenty of nonhumans make mistakes too, hm...You're someone."

"No, I get that, B," Dick says, scrubbing a hand over his face. "But I can't just say, to err is human, shrug and move on. Not when someone else got hurt because of that mistake."

"I'm not telling you to. But there's a difference between owning up to your mistakes, trying to make things right, and beating yourself up for things out of your control."

"Let's not forget all you did to help him, even before you became aware of his identity," Alfred says. "That effort, at the very least, balances out the mistakes. Does it not?"

They're probably right, but Dick's not totally convinced. The Red Hood saved his life, he was just returning a favor. It doesn't make them even, not when Jason should never have had to save him in the first place. And besides, it's not like there are scales measuring this shit. He can't almost get someone killed then say it's fine because hey, he helped take care of them after so it's almost like they didn't almost die because of him.

"I don't--" Dick starts, then cuts himself off. Shakes his head and says, "I can't keep letting him down."

Jason isn't the kind of person who trusts easily, he never has been. And he certainly never had the luxury of being the sort of person who gives out second chances.

And yet, he gives Dick second chance after second chance. Dick's not sure to what degree of trust he has, but back at the station there had been something in his eyes when he finally realized Dick really cares. Before the determination set back in. Something almost like solace.

"So keep trying," Bruce says. "You have to be doing something right, or he wouldn't've been staying with you to begin with."

That much has to be true. Tonight's proven nothing if not that Jason could leave whenever he wanted, if he was determined enough. And Jason's nothing if not determined.

Dick sighs. "I guess."

Bruce puts a hand on his shoulder, and it's somehow just as grounding as Dick remembers it being when he was a little kid. He says, "Not everything has to be on your shoulders, bud. We're all here for you, and we'll be here for Jason, when he's ready."

"Yeah. Thanks, B," Dick says, with a tired smile. He moves to stand, then stops a second to look back and ask, "D'you mind if I stay here tonight? I wanna be close if anything comes up."

"Of course."

Alfred arches an eyebrow and asks, indicating the rest of the Cave, "And are you planning to stay _here_ all night?"

"I'll just stay up a bit longer, you get some rest," Bruce says easily.

Dick's heard that one before. He happens to know Alfred has to, even without the resigned sigh.

But they wish Bruce goodnight and both leave to head upstairs. Bruce stays seated at the table, watching the medbay door for a few seconds longer, before getting up and heading over to the computers.

As they walk, Alfred shakes his head and mutters, "Now if only he could take his own advice."


	20. Homecoming

Dick sleeps better in his old room at the manor than he has for a long time. He suspects, though, that it's got more to do with how exhausted he feels than the location, but he'll take a win wherever he gets it. And he'll take dreams so unremarkable he's already forgotten them by the time he wakes up over the ones he's been having lately, which tend to stick with him for the rest of the day.

Either way, he's just glad he can wake up feeling rested, because he's got the distinct feeling today's going to be draining. He's not anticipating dealing with Bruce and Jason any more than they're probably anticipating dealing with each other.

He forgets to worry about breakfast and just heads straight down to the Cave.

Bruce is talking quietly with Tim, who's dressed for school but apparently never made it that far. They're both clutching their coffee cups like lifelines, but Dick can't totally blame that on the events of last night.

Bruce is probably filling him in about last night, actually, and Dick hesitates to intrude.

He's already been spotted, though, so he holds a hand up in greeting. Gestures over in the vague direction of the medbay and asks, "He wake up yet?"

"Not yet," Bruce says, shaking his head.

"Bruce said he knocked you out," Tim says, raising an eyebrow. "How'd you lose a fight to a guy on crutches?"

"To be fair, I wasn't expecting to be hit by a guy on crutches."

"You're losing your touch, Grayson."

Dick rolls his eyes, but he can't be bothered to actually be bothered. He's not sure exactly how he was expecting Tim to react, but the kid seems pretty chill, all things considered.

Still, it'll probably be for the better if Tim's back upstairs by the time Jason wakes up. Not that Dick thinks Jason would every actually try to hurt him, and even if he would, they made the executive decision to cuff him to the cot last night just in case. But Jason's also probably not in the best headspace to be meeting Tim just yet. It's at least one fight that's avoidable for now.

He stifles a yawn and asks, "Where's Alf?"

"He said something about breakfast," Bruce says noncommittally.

He's dressed in the same t-shirt, and Dick's fairly confident he's been down here all night. Whether that's due to working a case or keeping some type of vigil, he's not sure. Probably some mixture of the two.

He says, "You should get some rest."

"Actually, now you're both here, I could use your insight," Bruce says, less than subtly ignoring the topic of going the fuck to sleep. He waves them over towards a table, and Tim and Dick exchange quick looks before shrugging and following after him. "I've been trying to determine how Joker can be communicating with anyone from inside Arkham."

It's a good question, actually. It's not like the Joker gets phone privileges.

Probably a question they can just ask Kodro tomorrow night, though, after they get him.

"What do we got?" Tim asks.

Bruce indicates some papers spread out across the table surface, no doubt the results of last night's not sleeping. Tim's already picking up a few of the papers to skim over them, while Bruce taps the top of one of them and says, "That's a list of everyone he's come into contact with from the outside. Guards, psychiatrists, everyone."

"Who's this?"

Dick leans over Tim's shoulder to see the name he's indicating, which has a small red line drawn under it and a question mark. Bruce explains, "A guard. He's new, only started a little over a month ago..."

He half listens as Bruce and Tim delve into all the research, half focuses on looking over a few of the papers himself. There's a schematic of Arkham with the weakest security points labeled in yellow highlighter. A list of other inmates with confirmed or potential links to the Joker. Etc, etc. He's gotta hand it to Bruce for being thorough, at least.

But a distant scuffling sound catches Dick's attention, and he sets the paper back down, glancing over his shoulder towards the medbay. He turns back around, but a second later there's a metallic clink. Handcuffs rattling against the cot railing they're secured to.

Dick wanders away from the table, poking his head into the medbay.

He finds Jason, sitting up in bed. When he spots Dick in the doorway, he lifts one of the cuffs up. It's still secured to the cot railing, and in fact both sides are still clamped shut, but somehow it's no longer closed around Jason's wrist. So far he's only get the left hand free though. He raises an eyebrow and says, "These really necessary, dick? And I don't mean the shortening of Richard. I mean you're a _dick."_

"No, I got that," Dick says with a resigned nod.

Whatever he did to get his left hand free, he must not have the patience for it with the right. Instead he looks down at the railing and makes a few vain attempts at jerking his arm away. As if he could free himself with determination alone.

Then he huffs, looks back up at Dick and says with a righteous indignation, "Why are you here?"

Dick defaults and tries a joke. "Why are any of us here, really?"

"Don't think I won't deck your ass again," Jason says, but it's a less than effective threat at this particular moment. His gaze wanders towards the door, and then down to his leg--which they still couldn't put a cast over, because the gash needs to heal, but the aluminum splint will work way better at least. He looks back to Dick and says, halfway between anger and panic, "You couldn't've taken me anywhere else?"

"You didn't give me much of a choice, Jason," he says, apologetic nonetheless. "You knocked me out and made a break for it, not like I could just take you back to my place. And Alfred had to reset that bone, by the way."

"I'll send him a thank you card later," Jason says, bitter, giving up on yanking his second hand free and leaning back with a wary eye on the door.

Dick can't help but wonder who he's expecting to appear in the doorway.

A second or two pass by in silence, and then Dick indicates the empty cuff hanging loosely over the railing of the cot. With a hint of a question, he says, "I didn't think you could pick that."

"I didn't," Jason grumbles.

"Then how did you--" Dick cuts himself off as Jason sits back up. Puts one hand over the other, and then there's this only moderately nauseating _POP_ as his thumb snaps back into place. Dick blinks in disbelief. Mostly just because he needs to say something to get that sound out of his ears, he says, "What the actual hell, dude? Did you dislocate your thumb?"

"Gross," Tim says, appearing at Dick's side just to gape at Jason. Then, "You gotta teach me how to do that!"

Dick facepalms.

Just perfect. They've known each other for a whopping one whole second and Jason's already a bad influence on Tim.

Jason's brow furrows in indignation, like he's offended by Tim's mere presence alone. Which, actually, he almost certainly is. He says, less than welcoming, "Who the fuck are you?"

"Jason, Tim," Dick says, tiredly gesturing between the two of them. "Tim, Jason."

Jason narrows his eyes at Tim for a second, calculating, and without actually looking away he asks, "Dick, why is the Replacement speaking to me?"

And just like that Tim tosses his fascination away. Gives an affronted, "I'm not a replacement."

"Nah, you're too short to be a decent replacement, you're right," Jason says with disinterest. He arches an eyebrow and asks, "What are you, like, twelve?"

"Fifteen," Tim grumbles, as prickly as any other fifteen year old accused of being twelve.

"Close enough," Jason hums in disapproval. "Hey, what happens if I feed you after midnight?"

"Well you're idea of food is probably human brains, right?"

Dick closes his eyes against the migraine he's sure this conversation is about to become. Pinches the bridge of his nose and says, "Tim's not a Gremlin, okay? And Jason's not a zombie, he's just...undead."

"That's just a polite word for zombie," Jason says, casually inspecting the back of his hand.

"I'm trying to help you out here, Jay."

Evidently that's the wrong answer, because Jason snorts and rolls his eyes. Dick's fairly sure he's not just talking about finding a better definition than zombie when he says, "How much clearer can I make it that I don't want your fucking help?"

"Well you're gonna fucking get it anyway," Dick says through gritted teeth. 

It's remarkable how quickly family can wear on your patience sometimes. He thinks being a little frustrated is justified though, when Jason would apparently literally rather rebreak his leg than just have a conversation.

He was sort of hoping they could stop having this argument back at the subway station, when Jason finally seemed to realize that Dick cares. But apparently, unfortunately, knowing someone cares and actually accepting being cared for are two different steps.

"Now look what you did," Tim says accusingly. "You made Dick say fuck."

Jason lets out a cough that sounds suspiciously like a suppressed laugh. Nonetheless, Dick turns to Tim and says, "Maybe you should go help Alfred with breakfast."

Before Tim has a chance to argue, Jason does. He shakes his head and says with a degree of finality, "Actually, me and the little Gremlin have to talk."

Dick, uncertain what this talk is supposed to entail, finds himself instinctively stepping a little in front of Tim. He doesn't think it goes totally unnoticed by Jason, either, but for the time being Jason doesn't comment.

"About what?" Tim asks.

"Well, I doubt Golden Boy over here thought to warn you," Jason says, matter of fact. Before Dick can ask, he explains, "You're expendable, you do know that right? You're Model Number Three already, when something happens to you what d'you think is gonna happen, he'll cry about it? Nah, he'll build a Model Four."

That's exactly what Dick was worried about, if Jason met Tim.

It's taken a lot of effort on everyone's part to get Tim to believe that he's cared for, he never had anything like that for so long. It's not a point Tim should be made to defend.

"Jason, you know it's not like that."

"Fuck off, Dick, I'm not talking to you."

"It's not like that," Tim says, with calm conviction.

"Why, 'cause he told you that you were special?" Jason says derisively. He huffs and says, "You're not his fucking kid, you're his child soldier."

Dick takes half a step forward. Says, "Jason, if you wanna convince yourself you're this lone wolf or whatever, fine. But don't act like this is about Tim, it's not."

Tim starts, defensively, "Bruce--"

"Bruce is an asshole," Jason cuts him off with a sharp glare. "We were brainwashed into fighting losing battles, in a losing war, so some spoiled little rich boy could play at being a hero."

"And what you've been doing is so much better, Red Hood?" Tim says, stepping the rest of the way out from behind Dick. "You're a murderer."

"At least what I do works. How many corpses have you seen get back up and start hurting people again?"

"Just the one, actually," Tim says, folding his arms.

"Don't talk about shit you don't understand, assmunch," Jason says. And if looks could kill, etc, etc. "I'm trying to protect you."

Tim scoffs. "From what?"

"Just--Fucking forget it," Jason says, suddenly resigned. "You wanna get yourself hurt running around at night like an idiot, with the adult man dressed in a bat costume, it's no skin off my nose."

It's not that Dick doesn't see his point. He can't deny that being Robin was and still is dangerous.

But it's also not like Jason's aware of all the extra precautions they've taken since Tim started training as Robin. When they're dealing with a known killer, Bruce orders him not to engage. Anything involving guns, Bruce orders him not to engage. Anything that's a serious threat tot Tim's life isn't something they let him go into.

And Tim was running around the streets at night long before he became a part of the family. At least now he's doing it with supervision and training.

"I'm not gonna get hurt," Tim answers peevishly. "I can handle myself fine."

"He's a tough kid," Dick adds, which is supposed to be reassuring.

The words, however, only seem to upset Jason more. He gives another violent jerk against the restraints, the metallic clink of the cuffs on the railing resounding below his words, saying, "He's a god damn kid, Dick! He's not supposed to be _tough,_ he's supposed to be safe."

"Jason--" Dick starts, although he's not totally sure what he plans on saying.

It doesn't matter, because Jason interrupts. Shakes his head and says, surprisingly calm, "You're gonna get that kid killed. And this one might not come back."

"I'm not gonna let that happen."

"If that were true, you'd've let me kill the fucking clown," Jason says, offhand. "Which, by the way, you can't stop me from doing once my leg gets its shit together."

"Alright, his days are numbered." Dick chooses not to argue for now. It's been a long enough morning, and they haven't even had breakfast yet. He says, "But your leg'll get its shit together a lot quicker if you stop trying to break it again. Just so you know."

It looks like he's about to get another earful of Jason sass for the comment, but Alfred chooses that exact moment in time to poke his head into the doorway. He clears his throat and says, "Gentlemen, if you're quite finished biting one another's heads off? Breakfast is finished. Master Jason, how are you feeling?"

"Fine," Jason snaps. Then, almost guiltily, "Thanks. I guess."

Less than hopefully, Alfred offers, "Well enough to join us for breakfast?"

"I think I've endured enough for one day, thanks," he says. Then, not in a tone indicative of anyone in this room, "Besides, I don't think I'd be quite welcome."

"You're always welcome," Dick says.

Jason nods towards the restraint on his right wrist and says, "You wanna uncuff me before you go, or am I teaching the Replacement to dislocate his thumbs today?"

"Don't uncuff him," Tim half whispers.

"Let's all try and keep our digits where they belong, shall we?" Alfred says, giving a pointed look at Tim as he digs the keys out of his pocket. He steps over towards the cot and tells Jason, "I don't have to warn you about trying to knock anyone out again, do I? You're smart enough to pick your battles by now."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll stay put," Jason grumbles.

* * *

He's a little surprised to see that Alfred actually managed to get Bruce to come upstairs to eat something.

It's the first time Dick's sat down at the table to have a meal with Bruce and Tim in a long time, and for the most part they don't do much talking. Tim's pouting into his coffee, Bruce is brooding over the plate of food Alfred slid in front of him fifteen minutes ago, which he has yet to touch.

So nice to have the family back together.

Dick figures if no one else wants to address the elephant in the room, it might as well be him. He sets a glass of orange juice down and says, "Tim, don't take anything he said personally. It's...Jason's..."

He fumbles, trying to think of the best word for it.

"An asshole?" Tim supplies.

"I was gonna say surly," Dick says.

"He's been through a lot," Bruce says delicately, finally looking up from the depths of his breakfast plate. "I'm not saying he's right but just go easy on him, okay? He's hurting."

Tim points at Bruce with a spoon, and says pointedly, "Bruce is defending him."

Bruce frowns, and before he can answer Dick explains, a little awkwardly, "He didn't have a lot of nice things to say about you, is all."

"That's not surprising," Bruce says.

"Yeah, well you didn't hear him," Tim grumbles, picking up a fork just to stab the eggs in front of him with it a couple of times. Under his breath he says, "If we're so damn expendable why is he here instead of a jail cell? Jerk."

"He's not a jerk," Dick says.

"Tell that to your face."

Dick rubs a hand over the bruise on his jaw. But to be fair, when he woke up on his floor yesterday, there was a pillow tucked under his head, which certainly hadn't been there when he fell. Which means Jason, in his hurry to go break into Arkham and kill the Joker, had felt bad enough about hitting Dick to give him a pillow.

Shrugging, Dick says easily, "Fine, he's a bit of a jerk. But he's our jerk, and we love him."

"Even after everything he's done?" Tim asks, raising an eyebrow.

It doesn't necessarily seem like he disagrees with that decision, just that he doesn't quite understand it. Because logically, Jason Todd has been, yeah, a bit of a jerk lately.

"His actions are ultimately his decision," Bruce says, frown deepening. "But I share that blame. I wasn't there for him once, that's not going to happen again. He's still family, nothing can change that."

"The thing about love is that it's not conditional," Dick says. "For example, you love me even if I ate all the marshmallows out of your Lucky Charms last night."

"That's a joke, right? Tell me that's a joke."

* * *

Dick's sort of gotten used to being the one making sure Jason's actually staying where he's supposed to, and treating his wounds the way he's supposed to. So it's mostly out of habit that, sometime around midafternoon, he finds himself heading back down towards the Batcave to check on Jason.

Halfway there he runs into Bruce, which he doubts is entirely by accident.

"You wouldn't happen to be going to talk to Jason, would you?" Bruce asks from down the hall.

"Uh, yeah. What's up?"

"He's more of a flight risk if he's bored," Bruce says, holding something out towards Dick. "Maybe you could give him these?"

It's a stack of three paperbacks. Dog-eared and well read. Dick recognizes the titles, they've been sitting on a bookshelf in Jason's room since he moved into the manor.

One of the few possessions that he managed to hang onto while he was living on the streets, and it definitely shows. The front cover of one of them is stained with what looks like motor oil. Bruce had offered to replace them when he saw them, and little Jason had adamantly refused. Held them tighter, like he was worried they'd be tossed in the trash. They weren't, obviously.

Which is how Dick knows this isn't about Jason being a flight risk.

It's an olive branch, of sorts. More than that, it's something that used to make Jason happy.

"You could always give them to him yourself," Dick says.

"I'd like to," Bruce says. "But I don't think he really wants to hear from me right now. And like I said, we're trying to minimize flight risk."

It's only a half truth, but Dick has to accept it.

It's true that Jason doesn't really want to hear from Bruce right now, although Dick doesn't see that changing any time soon if they refuse to talk to each other. But Jason also doesn't have the option to leave if he doesn't want to talk, and he already feels trapped enough as it is. This place might be home for the rest of them, but Dick's not so sure Jason sees it that way anymore.

Dick sighs, taking the stack of books from Bruce with a small nod. He says, "Yeah, okay. Can I pass a message along?"

"Better not," Bruce says with a rueful smile.


	21. Sharp Edges

The next morning finds Dick sitting in the sitting room at Wayne Manor. A mug of green tea keeping him company while he ignores the morning news in favor of playing games on his phone.

He finds himself wishing he wasn't such an early riser.

He's pretty sure he's the only one in the house other than Alfred who's awake this early, but that's got less to do with it than the fact that tonight's the night they get to go after Kodro. And he's got nothing to do, until someone else wakes up for him to annoy, but sit here in anticipation of how tonight will go.

They've got it all planned out the best they can. They know when the shipment will arrive and where. They're reasonably sure they've got the drop on him this time, but Bruce is sweeping the area for explosives a good half-hour beforehand, just in case.

Tim'll be Alfred's secondhand at HQ, since Bruce won't hear of him coming anywhere near the scene until they're sure it's not boobytrapped or anything. And it's the first mission in awhile that Dick's gone on with Bruce at his side again, it's more backup than he's used to these days.

Logically, they've got this one in the bag.

Which is why he can't figure out why he's got such a bad feeling about this one. But sitting by himself on the couch playing Animal Crossing: Pocket Camp definitely isn't helping.

He's about to give up and go for a run or something when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Doesn't bother looking up, because he just assumes it's Bruce or Tim. If it's Tim, starting a conversation with him this early in the morning is probably deadly. If it's Bruce he should survive.

He looks up to offer a 'Good morning' regardless, just in time to catch Jason standing there, dropping the stack of books unceremoniously onto the glass coffee table. He'd been sleeping when Dick brought them down, so he'd just left them for him quietly. They thunk on the table, and Jason asks, "What the fuck is this?"

"We, uh, thought you might get bored," Dick says, a little uncertainly. Jason's got plenty of reasons to be pissed at him, he won't deny that, he's just not sure why this is one of them. Also, "What're you doing up? Dude, sit down."

It must've taken more out of him to come all the way up here than he'll say, because Jason rolls his eyes but otherwise drops onto the couch next to Dick without objection.

"How many times do I have to tell you I'm not that kid anymore?" Jason asks harshly.

Dick's gaze wanders back over towards the books on the table.

Now it makes sense. Jason thinks it was some sort of...ploy, or whatever. Put something that used to be his in front of him and maybe get him to remember the person he was before. Something like that.

Although he can see how Jason might think that, he knows that wasn't his intention, and he doubts it was Bruce's either. If Dick knows Bruce, which he does, the books were an attempt to make Jason feel a little more at home, in a place that's got to be stressing him out to be stuck in. Evidently it didn't work as well as Bruce was hoping.

"That wasn't the idea," Dick says, shaking his head apologetically. "We really just thought you might want something to do."

"We?" Jason echoes, raising an eyebrow.

Crap.

Dick answers reluctantly, "It might have been Bruce's idea."

He might've disagreed with Bruce leaving himself out of it initially, but it also really isn't his intention to throw Bruce under the bus here. He's trying to repair things between them, not make things worse. Jason doesn't need to feel like Bruce is trying to manipulate him into becoming what he used to be, not when Bruce is just trying to make him more comfortable.

But where Jason was pissed at Dick, some of the anger in his expression actually dissipates when Dick says it wasn't him. Which is shocking in itself, because he's only ever seen Jason get angrier when Bruce came up in conversation.

His expression shapes itself, instead, into something akin to confusion as he glances back over towards the table. Dick can't tell if it's a question or not when Jason says, "He kept my stuff."

"Yeah," Dick says. "Yeah, of course he did."

Jason's old room is like a museum. From the old bookshelf to the 'KEEP OUT' sign on the door right down to the dresser drawers, full of clothing far too small and probably too soft for this Jason. He's caught Bruce lingering by the doorway once or twice, on holidays or around the end of summer. Like he'd give anything to knock on the door to wake Jason up for school again.

For a second, the mask flickers. Emotion dances behind Jason's eyes, too quickly concealed to be properly identified. And then he props his leg up on the table and says scornfully, "He should've donated it or something. Not like I was gonna need it."

Dick shrugs. "Guess we just couldn't bring ourselves to."

"Whatever," Jason says.

But when Dick turns his attention back to his phone, he can see out of the corner of his eye Jason picking one of the books back up to inspect it with well hidden intrigue.

A long minute passes like that. It would almost be normal, the two of them sitting in silence on the couch together, if not for Jason's general air of unease all along. He bounces his good leg, looks towards the window like he's calculating how long it would take him to climb out of it. He notices the way Jason tosses the book onto the arm of the couch before he notices the footsteps down the hall.

An instant or two later, Bruce appears in the doorway. Jason immediately shifts as if to leave, like the stray dog that's been caught on forbidden furniture, but doesn't quite get up.

"Dick? Alfred said you might be in here--" Bruce starts, losing that thought when he spots Jason on the couch next to him. He clears his throat and says, "Jason."

"Bruce."

He says it almost like a challenge.

The bouncing in his leg has stilled, but the nerves aren't gone, he's just making more of an effort to hide them. He's ready to bolt. What it is about Bruce, exactly, that he's so scared of, Dick can't say. And he certainly can't ask.

Bruce asks tentatively, "How are you feeling?"

"Just swell," Jason says, colder than ice. And he has to know what they'll say, so he maybe he just wants to know how they'll say it, but his jaw clenches before he declares, "I want to leave."

Which is fairly straightforward, especially compared to the literal Hit and Run method from the other night. Dick wishes there was someplace else for Jason to go. Someplace he could both feel safe and actually be it. There isn't.

"Not yet," Bruce says, tone measured but frankly no more than usual.

He walks that tightrope line between gentle compassion and firm authority better than anyone Dick's ever met. At the same time, Dick's got the impression Jason will only hear one of those things, while his ears are deaf to the other, willingly or otherwise.

"You guys can't keep me here," Jason says, an abject challenge, meant for both Dick and Bruce.

"You can leave as soon as you're better," Dick reminds him.

"No I can't," Jason scoffs, like the very idea is ridiculous. "You'll make up some other bullshit reason to keep me here, so I'm not out there, doing what I do best."

Dick doesn't particularly care to think about what it is Jason does best. He's also not convinced that it's the reason Jason wants to leave. Not the only reason, at least.

At any rate, Bruce answers calmly, "You're not in prison, Jason."

He has either the courtesy or the good sense not to bring up the fact that Jason could, very easily, be in prison right now.

"In prison I'd have better company," Jason says wryly.

He doesn't believe that. Half the people he'd meet in prison want him dead; there's a number of gang members and dealers whose partners in crime caught several bullets courtesy of the Red Hood, and they don't take that shit lightly. The other half he probably wants dead. Actually, it's probably not half and half, Dick's sure there's an overlap.

Maybe he does believe that, and this family's in even worse shape than Dick thought.

"Once you're all healed up, I won't stop you from leaving," Bruce says levelly. "I would prefer it if you didn't immediately go all Red Hood on the City, but I won't stop you from leaving."

The request he not do anything that needs stopping once he's left goes unspoken, but delivered nonetheless.

"All due respect--which, none, by the way," Jason says. "But your word doesn't really mean a whole lot to me."

"Well, I'll just have to do what I can to change that."

"Don't hold your breath," Jason grumbles, slumping back against the couch. Then, "Legally, this is kidnapping."

"Legally," Dick points out, "You're dead."

"Legally, you're a bitch."

Bruce sighs, something like an exasperated mother at the supermarket, but says entreatingly, "Jason, it's for your own good. Just stay until you can walk."

"I don't want--I can't."

"You can, you just don't want to," Dick says.

"Shut up, you're the only reason I'm in this mess," Jason says, turning a sharp glare on Dick. "I told you I didn't need your help, you made me take it, I said just leave Bruce out of it. And now where am I?"

"You wouldn't be here right now if you didn't try to run off and kill someone on my watch."

"He's not a _someone,_ Dick, he's a fucking monster. He deserves it."

"Putting what he deserves aside," Bruce says. "You're not in any condition to be picking fights like that right now. You could have been hurt, Jason. We don't want anything to happen to you."

"Anything else, you mean," Jason corrects, matter of fact. His fingers curl into a fist at his side, and then uncurl. He says, "What happens to me isn't your problem anymore."

"It is, at least for the next couple of weeks."

It is forever, they all know that. Bruce isn't going to stop worrying about Jason once his leg gets better, was already worrying about him before he found out about the leg.

Jason's hand tightens back into a fist once more at his side. He doesn't throw it, doesn't even look like he's about to. Maybe it's just a comfort. He says, "Why?"

"What?"

"Why is it your problem?" Jason says. It's less a question and more an accusation. An accusation of what, exactly, Dick's not sure. "It sure as shit wasn't your problem last year."

"Last year," Bruce repeats thoughtfully.

Like maybe he's trying to pinpoint a specific instance in the events of last year that Jason could be referring to.

Dick's, frankly, lost as to what Jason's referring to. But then, he only got to hear about what happened last year off of the news, like everyone else in Gotham. Bruce wasn't talking about it, and Dick didn't know the Hood was Jason, and it was about a month before he showed back up in the news after that apartment explosion.

After a second, Bruce says in understanding, "I get you're upset--"

"I am not _upset,"_ Jason says, on his feet in an instant, apparently just for the sake of glaring at Bruce on more level ground. He wobbles a little, and Dick gets up too, just in case. "We are well past upset. I'm not even mad anymore, I wanted you to make the choice and you did. But don't you _dare_ stand in front of me and act like you give a shit about my safety."

Dick asks before he can think better of it, "What happened last year?"

The way Jason turns to look at him, it's almost like he actually forgot Dick was still there. He gives a resigned sigh before looking back to Bruce to say, "So are you capable of feeling guilt after all, or was I just not worth mentioning to Dick?"

"You were about to kill someone."

"God fucking damn you!"

"What happened last year?" Dick says again, less and less sure he'll like the answer.

Bruce is quiet a second. Giving Jason the opportunity to speak, Dick thinks. But Jason's stone silent. So Bruce turns to Dick and explains, "Jason told me he would kill the Joker unless I stopped him so I...Well, I stopped him."

"If you really wanted to stop me you should've used the gun I gave you," Jason says bitterly. He indicates a scar on the side of his neck and says, "'Cause this? This was just another half measure."

Dick's noticed the scar before, but he assumed it was another one gained in one of the Red Hood's many misadventures. He thought one of the worst things to think about, now that Jason was back, was all of the hurt he'd put himself through in the time before he came back to Gotham. It turns out that wasn't one hundred percent true.

He looks across at Bruce and can't imagine it. Asks, "B, what did you do?"

"Batarang," Jason says with a sardonic cheer, before Bruce can answer. He shoots a look over his shoulder at Dick and adds, "I think it makes me look more handsome, in a roguish sort of way."

For once, Dick can't bring himself to joke back.

To a point, he understands.

It's not like Jason was wholly innocent, he wasn't just looking for a fight he was starting gang wars and committing an awful lot of arson, and trying to coerce Bruce into killing the Joker and...To a point, Dick understands these two would've fought. Bruce would have had to fight him.

He's not even upset because of how poorly that could've gone, aiming a batarang at someone's neck like that. Bruce knows what he's doing as far as that's concerned, he'd never throw it if there was a chance it would be lethal. He's used those things to incapacitate at least fifty different Gotham City villains over the years.

Only they're not talking about a villain. They're talking about Jason.

"Jesus," Dick breaths.

Bruce looks away momentarily, remorsefully, before looking back to Jason and saying, "I'm sorry."

He means it. That much is obvious.

"Don't be," Jason says, shaking his head. Then, almost like he's embarrassed, "It was my bad. Would you believe I actually thought you might choose me?"

"Jason--" Bruce starts. The beginnings of an apology, or an explanation.

They don't get the chance to find out, because Jason explodes, "No! I trusted you! I keep trusting you. Both of you. And where does it get me? What has it gotten me other than dead, and shit and misery?"

"I--"

"If you fucking say you're sorry one more time, I will punch you in the face," Jason interrupts through gritted teeth.

It's a largely empty threat. Not that Dick doesn't believe that Jason means it, but they've already seen how that fight ends at the train station. Regardless, Bruce shuts his mouth.

He gives it a minute's consideration and instead says gently, "What do you need?"

Jason, Dick thinks, would be more comfortable if Bruce were all sharp edges. He shifts under the question, unprepared. Possibly trying to figure out how mad to be that Bruce has the audacity to ask. Possibly trying to figure out the fastest escape route. For a moment, he somehow looks very small.

The moment passes.

"Nothing, from either of you," Jason says, looking back and forth between Bruce and Dick. "Except for you to let me fucking leave."

"You already know we can't do that," Dick says.

"Whatever you say, batbitch."

"I'm not asking you to trust us," Bruce says, before Dick can reply. "Just stay here for a bit. Let Alfred take care of you."

Jason rolls his eyes. "I get it, I'm stuck here. Can you at least stop acting like I get a fucking choice in this?"

He punctuates this by dropping back onto the couch. Dick imagines he would storm out if he could. As it is, he has to settle for putting both feet up on the coffee table, and pointedly ignoring the book still sat on the arm of the couch.


	22. One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

Bruce makes his exit after that, whatever he'd initially been meaning to talk to Dick about forgotten for the time being.

Dick thinks about leaving the room too. After all, Jason was pretty clear about Bruce not being the only one that he's pissed at. Dick thinks maybe Jason's not the only one pissed at Bruce anymore, but all the same, his company at this exact moment might not be super helpful. He's the one who brought Jason here, after all. After promising not to.

He sits uncertainly back down at the far end of the couch. If Jason wants him to leave he'll say so, that much Dick can count on.

A minute passes and Jason doesn't say anything. Maybe he doesn't want to be alone after all. Dick clears his throat, says, "I wouldn't've brought you here. I didn't know--I mean, I didn't think that he..."

"Stop talking now."

"Yeah, okay."

Another minute passes. Dick looks back to the morning news, predicting the weather. He doesn't care much about the weather in the first place, but it's not out of boredom that he keeps glancing away from the screen.

He just can't stop noticing that mark in it's newfound context.

He knows Jason's got one or two other scars, given to him from his father, someone else he was supposed to be able to trust implicitly. And it's really no wonder that Jason says he wants to give up on the entire concept of family. Not when he gets a fresh new scar for each person he lets it.

In his righteous indignation, Dick must forget that he's staring. Far from subtly. Because Jason doesn't actually look over to catch him, but he shifts self-consciously. Pulls the fabric of his hoodie up to cover his neck.

Dick swallows the apology, certain Jason doesn't want it acknowledged, and forces his eyes front.

It'll be rainy all week. That's Gotham for you.

Eventually Alfred, being the saving grace he is, appears to retrieve Jason. Tells him, before he can explain that he doesn't want to go back to the cot in the Batcave, that he's made up a guest room for him.

And bless him for somehow just knowing Jason won't be interested in staying in his old room.

He guides Jason back out of the room, saying something about antibiotics and subway stations being dreadfully unsanitary places for popping stitches out, and then Dick's alone again.

He picks up the t.v. remote and puts it on mute, before he can listen to the same deodorant ad for the third time this morning. It's as he's setting the remote back in place on the coffee table that his gaze falls back on Jason's old books, abandoned there. Considers the feeling solace Jason seemed to feel at finding out Bruce had kept his things.

And if anything it only makes him more pissed.

Because Jason shouldn't have been shocked at a thing like that, only he believes they wish he'd just stayed dead. Which maybe he thought long before reuniting with them. He was gone five whole years before coming back to Gotham, after all.

But Bruce has, unintentionally sure, helped nudge him towards that conclusion.

A slight shuffle from the doorway on the other side of the room draws him out of his thoughts, and Dick looks towards it too find Tim. Scanning the room like he's looking for something specific before asking, "Where's B?"

"You missed him," Dick says, not totally managing to keep the irritation from his voice. Before Tim can start to think that resentment is meant for him, Dick turns and asks a little more friendly, "What'cha need?"

"Thought he might wanna run through the details one more time, before tonight."

Funny enough, Dick doesn't really care what Bruce wants, at the moment. He reaches for his by now lukewarm mug of tea off the coffee table, answering, "Think I'll pass."

Tim watches him uncertainly for half a second before saying, "What's going on, are you guys fighting?"

He seems concerned. Crap.

They aren't fighting. Dick hasn't had the opportunity to explain to Bruce how mad he is about this to his face yet. So maybe, technically, they're just not fighting yet. Whatever the case may be, it's not fair of him to put his problems with Bruce on Tim's shoulders. The kid's got enough to worry about without adding this to the pile.

"No," Dick says with a sigh, raking a hand through his hair. "Everything's fine."

Tim gives a skeptical hum, dropping into the armchair by the couch. "Jason drama?"

"It's not his fault," Dick says, only he swears his isn't the only voice that says it. He turns towards the left side doorway and no fair, Bruce is back already. Dick can't properly tell him off in front of Tim. Still, he says under his breath, "Damn right it's not."

"Yeah, everything's fine," Tim repeats, rolling his eyes. He looks across at Bruce and asks, "Mission brief?"

"Yeah, in a minute," Bruce says with a small, distracted nod. It's probably what he wanted to talk to Dick about earlier in the first place. He looks back to Dick and says, "Can we talk about this?"

As he asks, he steps a little further into the room. Now he does it, Dick realizes the whole time Jason was here, he hadn't come any closer than hovering in the doorway.

The thought that he was maybe staying back to assuage some of Jason's nerves doesn't do as much as it should to prompt any forgiveness. Not when it's followed so closely by a thought about the hand Bruce played in creating those nerves in the first place.

"I don't see much point," Dick says honestly. "We obviously don't have the same opinion on what I deserve to know."

Which was true before this morning's earlier conversation, but there's a difference between wanting to keep details quiet on a case until he's sure of them, and not telling Dick for a whole year that his dead brother was alive, and that he threw a damn batarang at said dead brother, and...This morning really isn't going how Dick pictured it.

"I won't tell you not to be angry with me. You're right, I made mistakes. But you're also not aware of the whole situation."

"Wow."

"You know that sometimes we have to make difficult calls."

"Difficult calls? Are you serious?"

"Hey guys," Tim says, snapping his fingers twice to get their attention. "Sorry to interrupt...whatever this is...but do we care about that?"

He says this pointing over towards the television.

Dick glances towards the screen, where the news is still playing on mute in the background. Where the breaking news headline running down the bottom of the screen announces in bold lettering 'Two Dead in Arkham Asylum Escape Attempt,' and Dick swears he feels his heart drop right down onto the floor.

He snags the remote and unmutes the t.v.

"...authorities believe she may have adopted the face of one of the guards she killed in the escape," the newscaster is saying, her voice clear and steady. "Jane Doe is considered armed and highly dangerous. Citizens should be advised to keep...."

The rest of the story Dick tunes out, leaning back against the couch with a sigh of relief.

Not that he's terribly thrilled to hear about Jane Doe escaping Arkham, she's a serial killer and a notoriously elusive one at that. But she's not the killer that currently has a target on Jason's back, so it's something he thinks they can work with.

He knows they were all thinking the same thing, too, because the tension is almost tangible as it begins to ebb away the longer the newscaster talks. They put the faces of the two dead guards on screen, one of whom he recognizes as the new guy from Bruce's research, their names printed below their photographs.

"More on this story as it develops," the newscaster says. "We'll be right back, after a short break."

They collectively sit and watch that stupid deodorant ad for all of about five seconds. Then Bruce clears his throat and says, "We'll have to deal with her later. Tonight may be our only chance to move on Kodro."

* * *

He's on his way to the kitchen to see if there's any Froot Loops in the cupboard to eat for lunch when he bumps into Alfred. Almost literally. He's a little too lost in his head to hear the soft footsteps in the hall as he rounds the corner, and it's only due to Alfred's on quick reflexes that they avoid a collision.

"Sorry, Alfred," Dick says. "Wasn't paying attention."

"Something on your mind, Master Dick?"

"How's Jason?"

"Well enough. He was sleeping when I left him," Alfred says. Then, "How are you?"

Dick answers with a noncommittal shrug. Frankly, he's been better.

His instinct is to say he's fine, because he doesn't want to get into this before the mission. He wants to ignore being mad at Bruce until they've captured Kodro, because otherwise he'll be distracted, and if they're distracted that compromises things. And he's not letting the asshole that dropped a parking garage on his brother just walk away, so he needs to be focused.

But it's Alfred, and if he says he's fine Alfred will just correct him tell him what he's feeling anyway. Might as well be honest.

"I feel like I've been taking one step forward and two steps back since that garage collapsed," Dick says simply.

It's like for every bit of progress he makes with Jason, he loses a step of progress with Bruce. And vice versa.

Of course he's aware that not one of them is guiltless. Dick promised to keep Bruce out of it, and then brought Jason right to the manor. Bruce promised to protect them years ago, and then scarred Jason with a batarang. Jason didn't necessarily promise not to go on a killing spree across Gotham and then try to coerce Bruce into killing the Joker, but it was sort of implied.

"Perhaps you have," Alfred says.

"Gee, thanks."

"But then, who's to say you're facing the right direction on the path?"

Which is to say that he's actually taking two steps forward and one back. Which still sucks, but at least it's progress.

Alfred might be right. But then, "It won't matter much longer anyway. Jason'll take off the second he can move well enough to take off."

And they'll never see him again, except maybe in fights in alleyways or on rooftops.

And they won't be able to say he's not justified either. The only person in this house who hasn't broken his trust yet is Tim, and that's just because he never had it to begin with. Well okay, Dick doesn't think Alfred's done anything either, but Jason doesn't seem exactly thrilled to see him anyway.

"So you have until then to convince him not to," Alfred says. "Should be plenty of time."

"Uhuh," Dick remarks skeptically.

"He's still here," Alfred says with significance. "He's been to hell and back, quite literally I'm afraid. He's rather more ill-tempered, and stubborn. But he is still here. Against all the odds."

The odds never did have much of a chance where this family is concerned. But, as usual, Alfred's right.

Jason is still here. Dick's job is pretty easy from here, he just has to find a way to keep it that way.

Simple.

They're about to part ways at the kitchen doorway, where Alfred's route takes him just past it. But Dick hovers just outside the entrance. He can hear the rain coming down outside from right here.

He shoots a look over his shoulder at Alfred and asks, "Keep an eye on him?"

"Master Jason?" Alfred clarifies.

"He gets nightmares."

Dick's aware his own bad dreams tend to decrease sleeping in this house. It feels safer, he thinks. He's got a feeling these walls will have an opposite effect on Jason, though, and it's storming outside.

Alfred gives him a small nod before heading on his way.

* * *

He does end up condescending to meeting up with Bruce and Tim in the Batcave to go over the details one more time before the mission. Run through entrance and exit routes. A quick crash course in what happens if they find out the place is rigged with explosives. One last attempt from Tim to talk them into letting him come.

Dick spends most of the meeting only speaking directly to Alfred or Tim.

He's not trying to petty, especially considering it's not even him Bruce specifically wronged. He's just trying to avoid snapping at Bruce in front of Tim again and starting a fight right before they're supposed to go out and...start a fight.

Tim's paranoid enough with them going out on a potentially dangerous mission without him there for backup. Dick gets it, he hates it any time he's benched like this. But it definitely won't comfort him if he thinks there's a chink in their armor.

It occurs to him maybe halfway through the meeting that ignoring Bruce entirely won't make Tim think nothing's up either, so from there he answers a few of Bruce's statements. Makes sure to crack a joke or two before they go, just so it looks like everything's fine.


	23. Something Wicked

The rain comes down in sheets. The wipers give it their best but can't quite keep up, and Gotham stares blearily back at them through the windshield, warped by the downpour. Neon signs swell and dissolve, like looking at them through funhouse mirrors. Traffic backs up on the streets, difficult to avoid even with Bruce behind the wheel.

The Batmobile glides along the tarmac as gracefully as ever nonetheless. The interior of the car uncharacteristically quiet.

Well, he's sure it's a normal quiet for the car. Not a normal quiet for the car while he's in it, though.

The silence is momentarily broken when Alfred alerts them of a quicker route to take to avoid the traffic, and Bruce gives a quick "Got it. Thanks," before the quiet picks back up. And this stupid car is tricked out with just about every gadget you can think of, but not once has there ever been a decent radio. It might make this drive a little less tense if they at least had some music as a distraction.

It's probably too much to distract from, anyway.

It would help if he could at least get his own thoughts in order. For the good of the mission, he wants to set this aside until after they've apprehended Kodro. It seems like the responsible thing to do.

He also wants to punch Bruce in his stupid face. Which he says a lot, but normally in jest and this time he means it. And it's just a little distracting when they've got bad guys to focus on.

He can't help but wonder what would've changed if Bruce had just said something when it happened a year ago. Dick could've helped, and maybe they still would've wound up in that apartment, but they would've done it as a team. A family. Which maybe would've been enough to talk Jason down. It also might not have, but now they'll never know.

Even if Bruce had just owned up after the apartment explosion things could've been different. Of course Dick still would've been pissed but not as pissed as he is now, picturing Jason holed up in some crappy safehouse somewhere, dealing with everything alone.

For his neck to scar like that, it's more than likely he needed stitches. But it's not like the Red Hood could just go to the hospital. No, he would've done everything himself. Grit his teeth like Dick's seen him do fixing the stitches in his shoulder, told himself he was a badass for handling everything on his own when in reality it was just _wrong_. Maybe he stitched it with dental floss.

And the bitter irony of that being a trick he no doubt learned from Bruce is enough to have Dick's hands flexing at his sides. He can't quite contain the irritable huff of breath as he turns to look out the passenger side window.

They could've looked for Jason together.

He's just wondering how far out they are when Bruce abruptly pulls the car off to the side of the road. They're not there yet.

Dick glances around at their surroundings and doesn't notice anything out of place. He turns back to Bruce to ask, "What are you doing?"

"Talk to me," Bruce says simply, turning to look at him.

It's not that he doesn't know what this about, it's just that he doesn't see how it's a pressing concern right now. He frowns, answers, "What?"

"There's something you've been wanting to say to me since this morning," Bruce prompts. "Tim and Jason aren't here to get upset, so say what you need to say."

Sometimes Dick doesn't like how well Bruce knows him.

"It can wait."

In fact, it should wait. The more time they spend here, the less time they have to spend double checking the docks for explosives or traps before Kodro's arrival.

"It can't," Bruce says pointedly. "If you're focused on this you're distracted, and if you're distracted you're more likely to make a mistake. I can't have you getting hurt because of something I did."

"That's funny, you didn't seem to have a problem when it was Jason."

He meant to just think that one bitterly to himself, save this argument for another time, but it's said now. And it's not like Bruce is surprised by the response, he'd have to be a complete idiot to not have known what Dick's been mad about, but it's met with thoughtful silence nonetheless.

For an instant, Dick almost thinks Bruce doesn't have a good answer. Then he realizes Bruce is just giving him room to speak further. He shakes his head, says with a huff, "We can do this later."

"Dick, you can talk to me."

"Are we here for a different reason? Bad guy, needs catching. Remember?"

Apparently if Dick's not talking, Bruce is. He gives a resigned sigh and starts, "You have to understand--"

"I understand perfectly, B," Dick interrupts, because he does. Bruce is a man of many principles and that's important to him. It just turns out that some of his principles aren't as high up on his priority ranking as Dick thought. Like the one about protecting his family from harm no matter what. "I understand, I just wish I didn't."

"You think I wanted to hurt Jason? That's the last thing I ever wanted to do."

"Yeah, well you did."

"I know," Bruce snaps, but if the way he looks up out the windshield is any indication, it's not Dick he's frustrated with. It's himself. Or the situation. Or both. He continues, "I couldn't see another option. I did--I did what I had to, to make sure nobody died. What would you have done?"

Truth be told, he doesn't know. In part, that's thanks to the fact he doesn't have all the details of what went down that night. He can't have all the details, because he wasn't there. Wasn't given the option of being there.

And he could argue as much to Bruce, but he doesn't see the point. So he answers with what he does know, "I would've done whatever I could to bring my brother home. Safe."

To which Bruce challenges, "Even if it meant letting him kill someone else?"

Dick opens his mouth to respond, then shuts it again. He swings the car door open and piles out onto the sidewalk. He doesn't plan on going anywhere, exactly, he just can't have this conversation trapped in that tiny little car space.

He paces a step away and, as Bruce steps out from the driver's seat, Dick says, "You know I love you, B, but you are a pompous ass sometimes. We are not talking about 'someone else.' We're talking about the man who murdered him."

"Are you saying I should've let him do it?" Bruce asks, walking around the hood of the car to meet Dick on the sidewalk. "I was supposed to just turn a blind eye, let him pull the trigger?"

"Of course not! But stop acting like he's some sort of villain for wanting to."

"I don't think he's a villain, but the issue isn't what he wants to do. It's what he does."

"Jason isn't a bad guy."

"Jason is a murderer."

Which is how Dick ends up punching Bruce in his stupid face after all.

It's not a light tap either. Bruce stumbles back a step or two, one hand coming up to rub his jaw. Dick steps back too. Shakes out his hand. He's vaguely aware of the dull sting in his knuckles from the hit, but mostly he's focused on how he's not any less pissed after having done it than he was before.

He drops his hand back to his side and says, "He's family."

"He is, and I'll love him like family no matter what he does," Bruce agrees vehemently. Then, "But I can't stand by and let someone hurt others, it doesn't matter who they are."

"Do you have any idea how much you hurt him?"

"It wasn't--It was just to keep him from pulling the trigger."

Despite this, the guilt that flickers across Bruce's face is visible even beyond the cowl.

"I'm not talking about the scar," Dick says, pacing that step closer again. "He told me you wish he'd stayed dead, he believes that. He stayed in my apartment for days, he saved my damn _life,_ and he still didn't think he could tell me it was him. Why do you think that is, B? He's not some deranged lunatic, he is your son. And he's been through hell. Literally."

Bruce opens his mouth, presumably to respond, but he must fall short because for the instant he doesn't actually say anything.

Another reason Dick didn't want to have this conversation right now? It's almost impossible to tell what's going through Bruce's head when he's got that stupid mask on.

His shoulders drop. "I never meant for..."

Bruce trails off, lets the end of that sentence hang in the air. Maybe he realizes the inadequacy of intention as an excuse, or maybe he just knows the coms are about to chirp an instant before they do.

But then Alfred's voice is in their ears, saying, "Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but I'm afraid we are on a schedule here. Is everything alright?"

"Just fine," Dick says. "We're on our way."

He shoots one more meaningful look across at Bruce, and he's pretty sure he doesn't have to explain that this conversation isn't over, and piles back into the car.

* * *

Despite the unexpected detour, they make it to the docks with just enough time for a quick sweep. They don't find any signs of explosives or traps of any other kind, although Bruce notes that the area around the docks themselves is suspiciously quiet. No signs of any patrol cops or any dockworkers or anything, outside of the men unloading the ship they've identified as carrying Kodro's shipment.

They split up, as per the original plan, to wait for Kodro and his crew to show up. The shipment should be arriving in, Dick checks the time, about twelve minutes.

He climbs up on top of one of the steel shipping containers, lays flat on his stomach with a view of the docks below. It's best to avoid anyone happening to look up and spotting him there before they're ready to move.

The rain seems to have lightened up at least a little from the steady downpour of earlier, but it's a long twelve minutes nonetheless. He remarks, "This asshole couldn't have checked the weather broadcast before deciding to smuggle heavy weaponry?"

He's not shocked at Bruce's silence over the coms. It does strike him as a little odd that neither Alfred nor Tim offer any sort of response. Alfred's normally pretty quick to remind him to focus, and Tim's favorite thing about their com system is making sarcastic comments. Then, he's probably not too happy to not be stuck in this rain with them, anyway.

Dick doesn't think too much about it. Largely because he doesn't have time to. He spots a car moving in towards the docks from the end of the road. Announces, "We got incoming."

He watches as the car parks, and four men pile out. The driver packs a gun on his left hip. There are two others, presumably security. They're less than subtle about the weaponry they carry, one with a gun tucked into the front of his waistband, the other in a holster on his thigh. The fourth man Dick recognizes, by the tacky white suit and the fact it's difficult not to recognize the guy who tried to drop a building on you.

A pair of the freight workers approach Kodro and the driver. They're talking about something but Dick can't quite catch what they're saying.

The freight workers don't appear to be armed. Still, if they're right about what tonight's cargo is, that could change relatively quickly. Dick hasn't seen anything telling him whether they're uninvolved, just hired to unload cargo, or aware of the truth behind the operation. Either way, it's probably best to avoid a lot of guns going off while there's a lot of them around.

One of the freight workers, a short woman with dark hair, passes Kodro a clipboard. He looks it over before scribbling something in pen. Says something to her as he passes the clipboard back and she laughs.

Once the pair of workers walk away once more, it's time to move. If they wait too long for the workers to clear out, Kodro might clear out too.

He figures the second of the two security guys to be the highest threat. Between the holster and the way he carries himself, it's likely he's had some actually training. Dick draws a single escrima stick and throws.

It conks the guy right in the head and he drops. And he'll admit it's just a little bit funny, watching the rest of the guys jump and look around in that specific mixture of panic and confusion. The driver stoops to pick up the stick, inspecting it with a deep frown.

"Sorry," Dick says, flipping down off the top of the shipping container. He lands a few feet away from them and says easily, "Guess I dropped that. My bad."

The driver drops the stick back to the ground almost immediately, in favor of pulling his gun. As does the remaining gunman.

Neither of them pull the trigger. Dick gets the impression they're waiting for an order to.

"Nightwing," Kodro says, smiling falsely. "I wasn't expecting you tonight. Where's your little friend?"

"Friend?"

"The Red Hood," Kodro clarifies impatiently.

"What makes you think we're friends?"

He takes a half step nearer as he talks, mostly to see what'll happen. He's not worried about a confrontation here. For one thing, that's what he's here for in the first place. For another, he knows he's got Bruce in the shadows as backup.

But if Kodro thinks he's got the upper-hand here he might be more talkative.

That theory proves accurate, because one of his henchmen flicks the hammer back on his gun, a less than subtle warning for Dick to stay back. And Kodro puts a hand out to stop him. He doesn't look away from Dick to do so, though. Says, "That was you talking to Angie at the bar? Angie told us it wasn't him. I assume you've got him hidden somewhere?"

Dick gives a noncommittal shrug. Asks, "What do you want with him, anyway?"

"I want to kill him, wasn't that obvious?"

"Why?"

"He's been screwing with my business, for one thing," Kodro says with a scoff.

"For one thing," Dick repeats, raising an eyebrow. He inches a step closer, and the gunmen tense but otherwise don't react. He says, a hint of a question, "Sounds like there's another reason."

Something feels off. It's clear the Joker wanted them to know he's involved in this. From the bank statements linking back to Ace of Knaves, LLC to using a warehouse bought in Jack Duggan's name, to bringing in a man from the same city he murdered Jason in--and they still don't know for sure that Kodro worked for Joker at the time but it seems likely--it's like he stamped his involvement on a billboard for them.

So why is Kodro trying to bury it? Why wouldn't he just admit the Joker's involvement upfront?

"It doesn't really matter why, does it? So long as he dies," Kodro says dismissively.

"That's not happening."

Not again. Not on his watch.

"Listen, Nightwing," Kodro says, like a car salesman only sleazier. "I'm not the only one he's making trouble for. You and the Batman have had your fair share of skirmishes with him. You let me get him out of your way, it's mutually beneficial. Right? Nobody has to know you told me where he is."

But his confidence seems an awful lot like overcompensating. He can hold his goons off from pulling the trigger, but the way he refuses to step out in front of, or even level with them is telling. The Kevlar vest visible beneath the lining of his suit even more so. And he's watching Dick, but his eyes flit warily around at the docks, searching for some unperceived threat.

He's afraid.

Not of Dick. Well, maybe a little of Dick. But Nightwing isn't his most pressing concern. So who is? The Red Hood?

"Sure, I'll tell you," Dick says with a nod. "Just swing by the GCPD, tell them Nightwing sent ya."

Kodro scoffs.

He has to have known Dick wouldn't take the offer, he's not that stupid. He's got to be desperate or stalling. It's possible he's figured out that the longer he keeps the conversation going, the longer he puts off Dick kicking his ass. But how does he think this is going to end? What's he waiting for to come save him?

"Alright," Kodro says, taking a step backwards. "Then I guess it's gotta be you."

He nods towards the driver and the gunman.

Before one of them can get a shot off, Dick pulls his other escrima stick and drives it into the gunman's ribs along with a jolt of electricity.

At the same instance, Bruce emerges from his place in the shadows. Knocks the driver off balance with a kick to the back of his knee.

Kodro swears and turns to run. Evidently, he wasn't expecting Batman to show for backup.

Bruce stops Kodro running by aiming a bola at his ankles. The cord entangles itself around his shins and he face plants into the ground, and it looks like he's about to get up but Dick can't pay much attention because he's dodging a hit from the gunman.

The driver fires a bullet at him. Misses.

Dick grabs the gunman by the lapels of his jacket and bodily throws him into the driver, knocking both of them into a pile on the ground. He retrieves the first escrima stick from its place on the ground, holds them both out in a ready position.

Off to the side, it looks like Kodro's managed to untangle his legs and get to his feet. He's going for the car door. Dick's not exactly shocked at how willing he is to leave his people behind, he left them behind at the garage too.

Bruce slows him down with a punch in the face. Dick's pretty sure he hears him grumble something about giving it up before anyone gets hurt.

The driver makes the poorly thought out decision to throw a punch at Dick. He sidesteps it, bringing both of the escrima sticks down to strike him in the stomach. As he doubles over, Dick steps around him to aim a hit at the gunman's collarbone.

The gunman manages to catch the stick, blocking the hit, do Dick slams a knee into his ribs instead.

By the time the fight's over, the gunman's unconcious on the ground, the driver's handcuffed to the passenger side door of the car. And Bruce has Kodro pinned to the driver side door with a firm grip on his wrist, arm twisted behind his back.

"Tell me what the Joker's planning," Bruce demands.

"Jebi se. I di u picku maternu," Kodro says around a snarl.

"Yeah that sounds pretty bad," Dick says, leaning against the car door just at his side. "But I don't speak asshole."

"I do. It wasn't nice," Bruce tells him with a small shake of his head. Then he turns back to Kodro to say, "It also wasn't the information we're looking for, so I'll ask again. Tell me about the Joker's plan."

Bruce twists his wrist a little further, and Kodro hisses before snapping, "Fine. Fine. Loosen up."

Bruce shrugs and steps back a little. Spins Kodro around so his back's to the car and takes hold of his shirt front instead, just to ensure he doesn't try to run again.

Kodro looks back and forth between them before his eyes settle on Dick and he says, "Joker offered me protection to set up business in Gotham. All I had to do was kill one of you."

"One of us?" Dick asks.

"You and Hood," he says impatiently, like Dick should have guessed that.

All this time Dick thought the parking garage had been a trap for Jason, but it was meant for either of them. Dick frowns. If someone was going to go through the trouble to put a hit out on one of them, he'd think they'd make up their mind who it is they want dead.

Kodro continues, "Nightwing wasn't my first choice, doesn't that earn me any leeway?"

Of course Dick wasn't his first choice. Jason's clearly the bigger threat. He knew about Kodro's presence in Gotham way before Dick did, and there's also that tiny little detail about how Dick's statistically less likely to open fire on him or his men.

"No," Bruce answers.

It looks like he's about to say something else, only there's an engine sound nearby and all three of them look up, alert.

At first, Dick thinks Kodro must have found a way to call for backup.

The car is barely in sight before Dick decides this driver should never be on the road. It brakes so hard the car skids, narrowly avoids crashing into one of the shipping containers a good fifteen feet away. And then the driver's door swings open, and out steps the fucking Red Hood. Helmet, jacket. He doesn't have his guns, he wouldn't have had access to them, but frankly it looks like he's here expecting a fight.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here?" Dick says, incredulous.

How is he here? He would've had to either manage to sneak past Alfred and Tim, or enlist one of them to help him just to get out the door. Both options are, frankly, ridiculous.

What's even more ridiculous is that Jason almost seems relieved to see them. It's not like he didn't know they'd be here.

"You're coms weren't working," Jason says, with a hand on the open car door to steady himself. Then, "We have to go."

"Go where? Why?" Dick asks, and he only sounds half as confused as he feels.

"Something wicked this way comes," Jason offers. Cryptic and less than helpful.

"What are you talking about?" Dick says. Then, "You should sit down."

"Jane Doe didn't break out of Arkham. She just changed her face so someone else could without us knowing."

It's the absolute bare minimum of an explanation. In fact, it raises way more questions than it answers.

Like where Jason even heard about Jane Doe breaking out of Arkham. Who does Jason think is on the streets if not her, and did he steal a car just to come and tell them this?

But, having said that, Jason turns his attention to Kodro. Asks, "Where is he?"

Dick's never heard anyone manage to make a question into a threat quite like Jason does.

Even over here, behind Dick and Bruce, and even with Jason obviously wounded, Kodro actually sounds nervous when he answers, "Where is who?"

"You know who."

"You think the Joker broke out," Dick breathes in realization.

Which is...totally paranoid but also not the least plausible theory. Jane Doe is able to change her face, that's what made her so difficult to catch in the first place. And, given the right amount of time to work on it, Dick imagines the Joker could, theoretically, talk her into taking his place in his room while he busted out.

The timing isn't great either. Someone breaks out of Arkham right when the Joker's got something cooking.

Dick figures this night can only get worse when, after a second's consideration, Bruce admits, "It makes sense."

"Where is he?" Jason asks Kodro again, pointedly ignoring Bruce's presence.

"I don't know," Kodro says.

"Don't lie to me."

"I don't," he insists, turning to Bruce and Dick for support. "This wasn't part of the plan."

"We can't be sure it's him," Bruce says. He looks across at Jason and then back to Dick before adding with a sigh, "But we should head back to the Batcave to regroup anyway. I'll take Kodro in the Batmobile, can you drive Hood?"

Not putting the four of them in the same car together is, probably, the wisest decision.

Dick nods. "Yeah."

Bruce locks a set of handcuffs on Kodro's wrists, and Dick stands by in case he makes any fresh attempts at escaping. Once he's secure and Bruce is walking him over to the Batmobile, Dick starts towards Jason.

"Probably best if I drive," Dick says. Then, "How'd you know where to find us?"

And how'd he know the coms weren't working?

Before Jason can answer, something pricks the side of Dick's neck. Just below his jawline. With a frown he puts a hand up to feel it and discovers what feels like a small dart.

Then, for the second time in three days, Dick's world fades to black.


	24. Discord

The ringing in Dick's head dulls from pewter to chrome before he registers Bruce hissing his name. Not his name name, but his other name, "Nightwing. Nightwing, wake up."

It doesn't sound frantic or panicked or anything, just insistent. But that's never been very informative as far as Bruce's tone is concerned. He never sounds frantic or panicked or anything. Dick's long outgrown the idea that Bruce is actually one hundred percent fearless, but he certainly tends to appear that way. Mere mortals don't get to witness him afraid.

Dick frankly doesn't give a shit. He's trying to sleep.

Something nudges his side persistently.

He ignores it. He doesn't particularly want to wake up yet. His head feels a certain degree of hazy which is, weirdly, sort of nice. If it wasn't for the aforementioned ringing. He hasn't slept this solidly for quite awhile.

"You wake up," he mumbles, letting his head roll to the other side but making no effort to lift it.

"He's fucking useless," another voice says impatiently, from moderately further away. It takes him a second to recognize it as belonging to Jason. It sounds a degree off, something unusual underlying that customary harsh. There's a faint shuffling then Jason adds, "Just for the record, I said this would happen."

"We're doing 'I told you so's? Now?"

"Can you think of a better time?"

He doesn't get what they have to be so cranky about. His does find his own mood steadily inching more towards the irritable with them, because their voices are keeping him from sleeping.

"How long were you awake before me?" Bruce is asking, in his Business Voice. All serious and urgent.

"I dunno, couple minutes," Jason says. He sounds distracted.

"You see anything we can use?"

"Don't you think I'd've mentioned it, if I had any ideas?" Now he sounds angry.

Dick answers tiredly, "Stop fighting."

Jason only gets angrier. He scoffs and says, "Shut up or wake up, asshole."

There's a sigh at his side, and then his arm is jostled once and then twice more. He realizes it must be Bruce at his side, deliberately knocking his shoulder into him. And at the third knock Dick finally lifts his head to tell Bruce to fuck off, probably not in as many words, he's not sure yet. The words have only half formed when their surroundings finally register in his brain and he cuts himself off with an, "Oh shit."

"Understatement," Jason remarks sourly.

He shifts to lift his arms forward and finds them trapped behind his back. The sleep that had been leftover in his mind drops away all at once as the events leading up to now come flooding back.

Jason stole a car. Joker may have broken out of Arkham. It looks like all three of them got shot with a tranq dart.

It's not the way he would've been expecting to spend his Saturday night, that's for damn sure. He gives his arms another, less than optimistic tug. Nothing gives. He says again, under his breath, "Shit, shit. Shit."

"Hey birdbrain," Jason says. "Appreciate the sentiment, but do you maybe have something a little more constructive to add?"

"Give him a second to wake up."

"Don't tell me what to do, it's your fault we're even here."

Here, meaning the floor of what looks like an abandoned old basement. Dick and Bruce are kneeling side by side at the back wall, their hands cuffed behind them, linked through some sort of pipe or something to keep them in place. Jason's sitting across from them with his back to one of the basement's wooden support pillars.

And Dick will concede that a lot of shit is Bruce's fault. This, he doesn't totally see.

If any one of them is accountable for not thinking it could be someone other than Jane Doe breaking out of Arkham then all of them are accountable for not thinking it. Dick, for one, is going to feel like an idiot when they find out Jason's right.

Bruce just sighs.

"Where is here, do we know?" Dick asks, both out of genuine interest and to change the subject.

"We're near the docks still, I heard a foghorn when I woke up," Jason says, with a degree of disinterest. "That's the best I've got."

Dick tosses a loot over at him to reply, and only then does he realize Jason's not in handcuffs like them. In his defense, his brain's still just a little muddy.

Anyway, Jason's not kneeling like they are, he's sitting on the ground, legs stuck out in front of him. Which is probably better for his injury, but Dick doubts whoever put them here did it out of consideration. A heavy duty rope haphazardly wraps around his chest and arms to tie him to the pillar. His helmet sits on the ground at his side, although Dick can't determine why, seeing as whoever put them here couldn't be bothered to remove Dick or Bruce's masks.

It's not exactly news that Jason's been a target to the people organizing this. But Dick's not comfortable with the way he's been singled out from them. He'd be happier with Jason at his side, like Bruce.

"Building's old, going by the architecture," Bruce remarks. "Probably abandoned."

The second point is backed, both by the general filth of the room, and the way the far wall's been graffitied by a few different tag artists. At least the lights seem to be working. If they had to deal with the cliché of a flickering or dim lightbulb, Dick would have to file a complaint with their kidnappers.

"It doesn't matter where we are," Jason says with an agitated huff, "If we don't have a way out."

Fair enough.

The room falls silent for a moment. Everyone retreating to their own heads to think something up. Dick, for one, comes up fairly empty. The lockpick from his wrist is missing, and he can't see how they plan to bust out if he can't undo the lock. Fighting their way out should be fun, too. What with Jason being hurt, and Dick's escrima sticks being missing from their holster on his thigh. He has to assume any of Bruce's weapons have been taken as well.

Tonight, he thinks, really isn't going according to plan.

Well that's not totally accurate. It isn't going according to their plan. He's got the distinct feeling it's going exactly according to somebody else's. It's a thought that only seems to amplify his disease.

He'd like to leave before they find out what, exactly, that somebody's plan is.

"So, uh," Dick says, clearing his throat. "Anyone got any ideas?"

"I've got one: Shut up."

"Helpful, dude."

"Can we bicker later, maybe?" Bruce interrupts. Dick catches an eyeroll from Jason, but before either of them can answer, Bruce says, "Between the three of us, we should be able to come up with something. But not if we're arguing."

Jason takes a minute to glare at Bruce. Then, faintly reluctant, he asks, "What's the door look like?"

Dick squints past him towards the door.

He can't make much of it out, it's angled such that the wooden pillar obscures his view to the stairway somewhat. And besides that, the door is at the top of the stairs, a little out of view. From what Dick can tell though, it just looks like a normal door. No reinforcements or extra locks or anything. It doesn't even look like it's made of particularly sturdy wood.

Although that speaks nothing as to what lies beyond the door.

"A door," Dick says, largely in confusion.

He's seen stupider criminals put in better efforts to keep them somewhere than this. It looks like all they have to do to bolt is figure a way out of the stupid handcuffs.

Jason's either too distracted to notice that it's not sarcasm coming from Dick, or he just doesn't care. Regardless, he says, "Here I thought it was a fucking microwave. No shit it's a door, dumbass."

"Don't fucking swear at me," Dick answers, faintly annoyed at being snapped at.

"I will kick your ass."

"Sure, just go ahead and untie yourself so you can come over here and kick my ass. Let's see it. On that note, which leg do you plan on kicking it with, exactly?"

"You're a fucking--"

"Boys!" Bruce interrupts firmly. "Focus."

"You focus," Jason grumbles childishly.

He scowls at the floor for a second, then huffs and makes a renewed effort to squirm his way out from beneath the ropes. Which, surprise surprise, is just as useless as every other time he's tried it so far.

When that fails, he attempts to twist around to get a view himself at the stairwell behind him. Pushes his good foot into the ground in an effort to push himself up and, gaining no leverage with one, somehow leads himself to the conclusion he should try using both feet. This results only in a sharp bark of pain, before he renews the effort to jerk away from the pillar.

Dick's forcibly reminded of the conviction back in the parking garage that Jason would absolutely chew off his own leg to get out of there.

"Hey," Dick says. "You need to calm down."

"Don't patronize me."

"He's right," Bruce says, voice deceptively level.

Jason opens his mouth to argue, so before he can Dick interjects, "You're going to hurt yourself."

"We have to think," Bruce says. "There will be plenty of time to freak out once we're out of here, but for now--"

"I am not freaking out," Jason snaps. To Bruce's credit, the comment at least seems to piss him off enough to distract him from his scrabbling. He says, "And don't give me that tone, okay? I'm not some scared fucking kid."

Dick can't totally grasp why Jason's so offended at the idea he might be afraid.

Their prime suspect for who's responsible for putting them here is the asshole who murdered him six years ago. Even if it were someone else they're all still trapped down here regardless. Only Jason's already injured. That's enough to scare the shit out of any reasonable person, it's not like they'd judge him for freaking out.

But fear, Dick thinks, is not the root of his behavior.

Jason wasn't afraid trapped beneath the rubble at that garage, and he's not afraid now. Or at least, that's not what drives him. Jason, Dick's fairly certain, doesn't get scared. He gets angry.

Regardless, neither of those are conducive to much rational thought.

Bruce sighs, shooting a look over at Dick. As if to ask, 'Can you talk to him?' As if they haven't already seen how Dick talking to him goes.

He imagines getting back on the subject of their escape will be more constructive than delving into everyone's communication issues, though. He clears his throat and looks back to Jason, saying, "Do they know where you went?"

Alfred and Tim.

He's not sure what those two knowing would actually do for them. They're not at the docks anymore for one thing. He can't say for sure they'll be able to find them wherever they are.

That's not totally hopeless; Tim's a whizz, he'll be able to track them down pretty quick actually. Only if it really is the Joker behind all this, Dick really doesn't want Tim showing up on sight. They know too well that the Joker doesn't have any qualms about hurting a kid. And Alfred's admittedly a badass, but probably not particularly equipped to handle whatever shit show this is about to become.

They might just be on their own.

"We're on our own," Jason says, glancing over his shoulder once more.

"Awesome."

"Why would you think sneaking out without telling anyone was a good idea?"

"I did it to save your pompous ass, first of all, so a thank you might be nice," Jason says. Then, "Besides you don't usually tell your kidnappers before you sneak out, do you?"

Dick's halfway to a retort when it occurs to him this is probably what the Joker, or whoever, wants. For all their telling each other to focus, not one of them has actually succeeded in doing it. They haven't made a single constructive step towards forming a plan of escape. They're too busy bickering like a bunch of idiots, and then telling each other to stop bickering like a bunch of idiots.

It might be why their captor hasn't bothered making an appearance yet, too. Let them get as pissed at each as possible first. That way they're not acting as a cohesive team.

Little does that guy know, they weren't a cohesive team to begin with.

Point made, because while Dick's having this silent revelation, Bruce and Jason have been continuing to be, well, Bruce and Jason.

"You're telling me you had no contingency plans? What was your plan if he got to the docks before you could warn us?"

"Honestly, I was just gonna run him over with the car."

Dick can't tell if this is an honest response, or a response Jason's throwing out there just because he knows it'll piss off Bruce. He also can't tell if he's allowed to laugh at the mental image his brain produces, of Jason running the Joker over in a stolen car.

"So were you really there to warn us," Bruce asks. "Or did you just want a shot at killing the Joker?"

Realistically, it's probably some combination of both.

He'd been relieved to see them. The first thing he'd said when Dick questioned him wasn't about the Joker, it was about telling Dick and Bruce to get out of there. Now that they're all sitting here of course he's going to deny it, but Jason was worried about them. Of course, whether their safety lies before or after killing the Joker on his priorities list remains to be seen. But they're on it regardless.

"I had a shot a killing the Joker," Jason says pointedly. "And if you hadn't _stopped me,_ we might not be here right now."

Dick wonders if that rusting nail sat on the ground a few inches away is too thick to pick the lock with. He probably can't reach it anyway.

"That's not the answer. That can't be the answer."

"Well maybe we're not asking the same questions, 'cause where I'm sitting it's the only answer."

Maybe Jason has a knife somewhere he can cut through the ropes with. Jason almost always has a knife. Someone took all their weapons before tying them up down here.

"You're wrong," Bruce insists.

"You tell yourself whatever you have to, B, but run the numbers. I guarantee you're inaction has caused more death, and more suffering than my bullets ever have. If you could've stopped them and you didn't, every life they take after that is on you, too."

"Guys," Dick says. "Now might not be the best time to debate this."

Unsurprisingly, he goes unheard.

"And yet here you are, doing the very thing you claim is wrong," Bruce says, matter of fact. "How can you pull that trigger, how can you murder someone, and claim that those people are irredeemable? By that logic, so are you."

What Bruce is trying to say, Dick is aware, is that the reasoning of killing someone because killing someone is wrong is hypocritical. What it sounds like, and what Jason no doubt hears, is that he's calling Jason irredeemable. Not a conversation they have time to have, but a conversation it seems they're about to have nonetheless.

"Maybe I am," Jason says, like he's already thought of and accepted this. Then, "That archaic moral code, black and white bullshit, works great on paper. But real life's a bit more complicated, old man."

"How?"

"You say you wanna see justice, until you have to get your hands dirty for it. The irony you can't see is that your precious little no-kill rule has always been more important than actual lives."

"What you're doing isn't justice. It's just revenge. It's wrong."

"I'm sorry, revenge is wrong? Why did you become Batman again?"

Dick's not picking sides, but that's sort of a decent point.

"What I do as Batman and what you do as the Red Hood are so far from similar."

"Yeah," Jason agrees. "What I do actually works."

"Do you have any idea how many people have told me that exact same thing before? While they were plotting to destroy the city?"

Okay, Bruce also has a point. People doing bad shit tend to do it because they're convinced they're doing good shit. Dick hates what Jason does, but in it he sees the intention to protect people. He just wants to keep his city safe, and he got fed up with Bruce's way not working, and he told himself another method would.

Again, though, now's not really the time for this little ethical debate. Dick clears his throat and tries, "Let's talk about something else, how 'bout?"

Ignored.

"I get it," Jason says. "I'm just another villain to you, is that it? Maybe you're right. Or maybe, you're just gonna tell yourself whatever you have to. To justify that all I am is what you made me."

Dick can't see this conversation going anywhere good any time soon.

"What I made you?" Bruce echoes. "I take full responsibility for what happened to you. For any hurt I may have caused before that, even. But there comes a time when you have to be accountable for your own actions."

"My own--" Jason says, cutting himself off with a disbelieving laugh.

"I never made you pull that trigger, Jason, you did that all on your own. If you want me to stop treating you like a villain, how about you stop acting like one?"

Oh, come on.

"Guys can we maybe have this conversation a different time?" Dick throws out.

"I hate you," Jason says.

For such a simple, three word statement, Jason sure packs a hell of a lot of meaning into it. Even Dick, who's been pretty solidly convinced Jason's only so angry because he still cares so damn much, has a hard time not believing him.

They don't get the chance to hear Bruce's response, not that Dick thinks he really wants to. But before anyone can say anything there's a stifled laugh coming from upstairs, behind the door. It might be sort of ominous in a cliché horror movie sort of way, it if weren't so damn annoying. And if it didn't, at least a little, remind him of a schoolkid spying on someone they've played an infantile prank on.

It's very likely Dick's the only one making that mental connection.

Bruce's gaze turns towards the stairwell, alert again at once, all his fighting with Jason forgotten for the time being. Dick hears the telltale rattle of him trying the handcuffs again, without results.

Jason tenses, but refrains from twisting to look over his shoulder again. Maybe he knows he doesn't have a wide enough range of motion to see behind him. Since that wasn't stopping him before, Dick has to entertain the idea that maybe he doesn't want to see what's up there.

"I hate you," a voice repeats around an obnoxious cackle, descending further down the stairs. A pair of shiny black dress shoes come into view. He claps his hands as the laughter subsides and says, "I gotta hand it to you, you gentlemen sure know how to put on a show."

With this he reaches the bottom of the steps. Offers a wave of his hand in greeting.

And Bruce lets out a heavy sigh before nodding. Like greeting that one particularly annoying coworker in the halls, who you would rather take the long route in order to avoid, but they've already seen you so now you have to stop and say hi. He says, unimpressed, "Joker."

"Good to see you, Batman."

Dick has to ask, "How long were you just standing out there like a fucking creep?"

Unfazed by Dick's judgmental tone, he answers, "Oh, the whole time."

"Get a hobby."

"Ooh, I have been thinking of taking up macramé, now you mention it," Joker says, a little too enthusiastically. "What do you think?"

The Joker starts to say something else, and Dick's concerned he's actually going to try to talk about whether or not he should learn macramé. Before they can find out, Bruce saves them with a subtle prompt of, "Why are we here?"

"Straight to business, as usual. You're no fun, you know that Bats?"

"You wanna have fun?" Jason growls. "Why don't you untie me? I'll show you fun."

"See? This one gets it," Joker says, jerking a thumb towards Jason. Far from deterred by the blatant threat. He paces around the wood pillar to squat down at Jason's side, telling him, "Sorry bud, no can do. I've got plans for you."

He gives Jason's cheek a condescending pat.

In response to which Jason actually just fucking bites him. Dick doesn't know why he wasn't expecting that, looking back, but he's a little thrown. And so's the Joker, if the abrupt holler as he yanks his hand quickly back is any indication. He jumps a step back with an indignant frown as Jason turns his head to the side and spits.

"Ew," Jason says.

"What is wrong with you?" Joker asks, looking down at Jason like he's the unruly toddler at the grocery store. He's so offended.

Dick stifles a laugh, despite the disapproving look from Bruce.

The situation loses some of its humor when Joker pulls a gun.

He won't shoot. He didn't set all this up, drag them here to wherever this is, to just shoot Jason right away. Dick struggles against the cuffs preventing him from helping anyway.

Bruce's voice at his side is saying urgently, "Don't."

Jason just holds eye contact. Almost like a silent dare to pull the trigger.

"Sike!" Joker declares after a long minute, dropping the gun back to his side with an insufferable chuckle. Some of the tension in the air dissipates, but honestly not by much. He says, "You should've seen your face. I don't wanna kill you, Jason."

That, somehow, seems to distress Jason more than the gun to his head did. He frowns.

"You don't?"

"Yeah, well I mean, I did," Joker says, casually gesturing with the gun he holds. "I told our mutual friend to make it look like Nightwing did it. Or vice versa. It's like killing two birds with one stone. Well, killing one bird with two stones. Twice."

"That phrase doesn't work here," Dick says, shaking his head.

"Can you imagine it though?"

Dick doesn't really want to imagine that.

He's been all too aware this whole time that things would've gone very, very differently if Jason hadn't pushed him out of the way that night at the garage. But up until now, he's only really considered the 'I Wouldn't Be Alive' kind of different. Not what that would've looked like to the rest of the world.

He thinks back to Bruce's reaction when the news was saying the collapse was Jason trying to kill him. And he knows Bruce would believe it, if there was any evidence to indicate Jason had killed him.

And he's glad for a very different reason to not have died there.

"No," Bruce says flatly.

"Yeesh," Joker says, looking back and forth between the three of them. His gaze settles on Dick and he says, "This is awkward, right? It's not just me."

"It's definitely you."

He waves the gun dismissively before looking back to Jason, saying, "I mean, can you blame me? You come back from the grave and make it your life purpose to take me out. I'm flattered, by the way. But what did you expect?"

It almost seems to imply that, for awhile there, Jason had him scared. And Dick won't go so far as to support Jason's actions, but at the thought he is just a little bit proud.

"You have an overinflated sense of your own importance," Jason tells him.

"Well that's a little rude. I was hoping we could be friendly."

"Friendly and tranq darts don't usually go together," Dick says.

"You need more exciting friends. Besides, all that's in the past now," Joker replies without missing a beat. It almost sounds like it's approval he's looking for when he says to Jason, "I don't wanna kill you anymore. Can't we agree to put it behind us?"

He holds his empty hand out towards Jason, as if offering to shake hands, then seems to remember that Jason's arms are tied and less than smoothly retracts it again. For Jason's part, he just glares. Dick wants to describe it as a death stare, but he's not sure if that would maybe be in bad taste, given the context.

There's a beat of silence.

He's obviously waiting for Jason to say something, but as it becomes clear Jason's not going to ask, Bruce does. Confused, faintly troubled, "What do you want?"

He flips the gun in his hand around, holding the handle out towards Jason like an offering. Dick can't see his face, but something in his voice sends a chill down his spine as Joker says, "I want to help you."


	25. Jason's Choice

All three of their voices combine in a chorus of, "What?"

Varying degrees of confusion, concern, or resent play across their tones. Jason's eyes flicker warily towards the Joker's hand and then back up as he asks with a sneer, "What makes you think I want your help with anything?"

"Well, I didn't wanna play this card so soon but," he answers, idly passing the gun back and forth between his hands. He shrugs and says, like he feels awkward for bringing it up, "You don't really have another option here. Now, don't you wanna know what I can do for you before you reject my proposal?"

"Not really."

Dick's with Jason on this one.

What's going in the Joker's head has always been just as hard, if not harder, to figure out as what's going in Bruce's. Albeit, for totally different reasons. But Dick knows enough by now to know that the Joker's idea of helping someone and any normal person's idea of helping someone differ wildly. The method of getting them here to discuss it proves that much.

That, and whatever proposal he has is clearly not for Jason's benefit. That much is obvious, not just from the less than subtle threat. He does a good job of hiding it, but every time Jason refuses to play his game and give the answer he's supposed to, the Joker's patience snaps just a little further.

And now is really not the right time to be toying with the Joker's patience.

They need to play along with his game until they can get themselves loose. Jason's smart enough to know that, Dick can't figure out what his plan is by trying to piss Joker off. But since he's clearly not going to follow the script, Dick clears his throat and asks, "Help him how?"

Jason shoots a warning glare across at him. Whatever counter game he's planning, it apparently doesn't involve Dick talking to the Joker.

"I'm so very glad you asked," Joker says. He turns to Jason and whispers, "You do need a free hand for this. Are you a righty or a lefty? I wasn't sure."

"You've got a fifty-fifty chance, you figure it out."

"Bats, is your kid a righty or a lefty?"

"I'm not his kid," Jason growls before Bruce can answer.

Bruce offers a shrug and says, "You've actually got a ninety-ten chance at guessing, since ninety percent of the population is righthanded."

Joker hums, tapping an index finger against his chin as if pondering a complex mathematical problem. After giving it a second's thought, he says eagerly, "Righty? No, wait I changed my mind. You're a southpaw."

He shrugs noncommittally.

"I guess it doesn't matter, tonight you're a righty," Joker says, momentarily tucking the gun back into the waistband of his pants. He squats down on the ground at Jason's side and reaches out to fidget with the rope tying him in place.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dick catches Bruce shifting uncomfortably. There's a faint clinking as he tugs at the handcuffs again. Dick's pretty sure they won't be getting out of them without something to pick the locks with. He's also pretty sure there's nothing within reach to pick the locks with, so they've got to start thinking outside the box. Before this goes too far.

Dick knows Joker's succeeded in freeing one of Jason's arms from the ropes because one second he's squatting there fiddling with the ropes, and the next he's sent sprawling back onto the ground.

It happened too quick to be sure, but Dick's fairly certain Jason elbowed him in the face. From there he immediately goes to tugging at the rope on the other side in an effort to free his other arm. It's tied at the back of the beam and it's not like Jason can reach the knot. It doesn't look like he's even having much success in loosening it.

"I guess I should've seen that coming," Joker says, wiping some blood from his nose as he gets back up. Then, "You're not gonna untie that, I learned that knot in the boy scouts."

"You were a boy scout?" Bruce asks skeptically.

"Fine, I learned it on YouTube. But it's a good knot."

Dick can't believe the Joker watches YouTube.

That particular train of thought is very quickly derailed. Of course Jason's not going to stop trying to free himself just because he was told to stop. Which means the Joker takes it upon himself to stop him.

He skips right past any attempt at prying Jason's free hand away from the rope it's tugging on, instead walking the few steps in front of him and resting one foot on top of Jason's bad leg. At first it's just a warning, but as Jason's response to any warning is to dig his metaphorical heels in and not back off, Joker digs his literal heel in.

Jason grits his teeth but only struggles with all the more determination for it.

"Stop," Dick blurts.

"Stop what?" Joker says, completely nonchalant. The bastard. He looks down at his foot as he applies a little more pressure, then back across at Dick to say, "This? He doesn't really seem to mind."

"Get away from him, Joker," Bruce says. And he somehow manages to make it sound like a threat, even when there's nothing he can do to follow through on it right now.

Dick's not sure if it's his imagination or if he actually hears bone shifting as the Joker grinds his heel down. He is sure he hears the strangled cry as Jason abruptly lets go of the rope he's been pulling at. Bites down on his fist in an attempt to hold back the sound he makes, more a sob than a shout.

"Off," he says.

Joker puts a hand to his ear and leans down a little, saying, "I'm sorry Jason, I didn't quite catch that. One more time?"

"I said get the hell off'a me you freaky bastard," Jason snarls, punching his fist into the ground at his side.

Joker hums thoughtfully. Prompts, "Get the hell off'a me you freaky bastard...please."

Jason growls but otherwise remains, defiantly, silent. Dick's got the distinct impression Jason would let the bone be ground into a fine powder before he begged the Joker for anything.

They're not about to find out. Dick interjects for him, "Please."

"See, at least pretty bird has some manners," Joker says. It looks like he eases up on the pressure but he doesn't fully step away. Asks, "Are you gonna be a good boy now?"

"I'm gonna kill you," Jason says. He's never sounded more certain of anything.

Joker lifts his foot up and steps back anyway with a doubtful scoff. He says easily, "You're sure gonna kill someone. Otherwise I've been wasting my time."

Dick frowns. "What are you talking about?"

Joker pretends not to hear him, stepping back to his place at Jason's side. He makes a beckoning motion with his hand and says in mock politeness, "Hand, please?"

There's a brief standoff as Joker waits with his hand out for Jason to comply with the request. Jason stares unyieldingly back at him for a long moment, until Joker turns towards Dick and Bruce, as if to tell them something. And only then does Jason huff and offer the Joker his hand.

He curls his fingers around Jason's wrist before he can pull his hand away again. Draws the gun from his waistband and presses it into Jason's palm.

"You really wanna put a loaded gun in my hand?" Jason says, like it's the stupidest decision in the Joker's career.

It probably is.

The only reason Jason doesn't shoot him immediately, Dick's sure, is that Joker hasn't released his own grip on the barrel of the gun, or removed his other hand from Jason's wrist. For right now they're both locked there.

And Dick's too busy wondering what safeguard Joker has to keep Jason from shooting him to focus on wondering why he wants to give Jason a weapon in the first place.

"Shoot me, and my men come in here and take all three of you out," Joker says in warning. "And I'm only giving you the one bullet, so let's face it, you're shitting ducks right now."

"Sitting ducks," Dick says before he can think better of it.

"What?"

"The expression," Bruce clarifies with an exasperated sigh. "It's sitting ducks."

"Oh. Why did I think--Y'know what, doesn't matter," he says, shaking his head dismissively. "Point is, if I die so do you. Just tell me you got that and we can get this show on the road."

Jason arches an eyebrow. Challenges, "What makes you think that'll stop me?"

That answer hits like a punch in the gut.

Because Jason's not posturing. Not trying to sound tough in front of the Joker or Dick or even Bruce. There's no room for that here and they all know it. Jason says it because he means it.

And Dick knew he wanted the Joker dead. More than anything. He just kind of assumed that anything didn't include living.

Joker blinks, like he wasn't expecting that answer either.

"Flatterer," he says with a snort. Jason doesn't laugh. He holds deliberate eye contact, both of their hands locked on the gun Joker intends to pass to him. With a small roll of his eyes Joker says entreatingly, "Two of you can still walk out of here, Jason."

Dick doesn't like the sounds of that. But then, he's fairly certain he's not supposed to.

Jason's gaze darts between them and Joker, understanding dawning on his face. He asks, like someone who already knows the answer but hope that they're wrong, "Two?"

With a longsuffering sigh, Joker explains, "You're gonna shoot one of them, kid. It's not that complex."

He makes an attempt at withdrawing his hand from the gun, jerking his arm as if it's been burned. But the Joker hasn't released his hold on Jason's wrist, and he doesn't get very far. There's a brief scuffle as he tries to wrestle his hand loose, but in the end Joker wins, pointedly folding Jason's fingers around the grip of the gun.

"A little gratitude might be nice," he says lowly. "I could've just killed them myself, I'm letting you do it."

As if Joker would ever just shoot either of them, it's far too simple for him. There'd be no drama in it.

"Gratitude?"

"I've giftwrapped them for you, Jason. I mean, you have to pick one, but I'm even letting you choose," he says. He finally draws his hands away from Jason's, so he can gesture dramatically over towards Dick and Bruce and say, "Fire away, Mr. Hood."

Even with the lack of a grip holding him there, Jason seems to freeze. His eyes fixed on the gun. And this has to be the first time since his return that he's looked at a weapon like it's something offensive to him.

His silence must stretch on a minute too long, because Joker leans in closer. A hand on his shoulder, like a mentor offering advice, and says, "I recommend a good old fashioned headshot. I've thought about it, and you could shoot Bats right in the mouth. If it's Batman you wanna kill, that is. Nightwing's an idiot, you can shoot him anywhere."

"I don't," Jason starts and stops. And uncertainty sounds so damn foreign in his voice. He squeezes his eyes shut against the light, and when he reopens them he answers more resolutely, "No."

"I'm sorry, did you say no?"

"You heard me."

"What, you don't wanna kill them?" Joker says, like the concept is totally ridiculous. "You're the one who said they're just as bad as I am. And you kill bad guys, that's your whole _thing_. You're the poster boy for vigilante justice."

"I guess you just don't know me as well as you thought you did, Joker," Jason says with a half shrug. "Find another triggerman, 'cause I won't do it."

Dick holds his breath. He is, of course, relieved Jason doesn't want to kill them. But he doesn't anticipate it ending well for anyone here.

Every time so far that Jason hasn't done what the Joker wanted him to, that thread of patience has frayed more and more. And Jason's the one holding the gun, but now he's refusing to use it.

"Why not?" Joker asks impatiently. The frustration is gone from his features in an instant, though, leaving Dick to wonder if it was ever really there. He stands back up, looking down on Jason with a pitying shake of his head. Says, "Oh, you old sap. You still care about them, don't you? You think they're your family?"

Something plays across Jason's face that, if it were anyone else, Dick would be inclined to describe as vulnerability. Like he's been caught in a major lie.

He clenches his jaw and says, "No."

It's less than convincing. Joker must not believe it either, if the way he laughs is any indication. Patronizing and cruel all at once, the way only the Joker can laugh.

The only thing Dick hates more than that laugh is the way Jason seems subtly to shrink away from it.

"I got news for you, kid, you're not one of them anymore. You're one of us," Joker says, indicating himself with a sweeping gesture. "It's more fun anyway. Heroes are so stuffy and--"

"Shut up," Jason snaps, bringing the gun up to point right at the Joker's face.

"Jason, don't," Bruce says.

"Can you conjure up a terribly compelling reason for me not to?"

"No, by all means, shoot me. All four of us can die together," Joker says, less than deterred. In a vague singsong he adds, "Like one big happy family."

"I told you to shut up."

There's a metallic click as he flicks the hammer back in warning. Joker puts his hands up in what looks like surrender, but Dick gets the impression it's mostly for show.

He has them where he wants them. He knew whose hand it was when he passed Jason the gun, and he took the chance at walking right in front of Jason anyway. The Joker either doesn't fear what happens after he's shot, or doesn't think he has legitimate reason to fear Jason shooting him. Dick doesn't care to know which, either way they're screwed.

"No one has to get hurt," Bruce says.

"I knew you were gonna say that," Joker chuckles. "Would now be a good time to mention the bomb?"

"Bomb?" Dick echoes.

"What can I say? I like to be prepared. If Jason here doesn't make his choice in the next hour or so the whole place goes up," he says. He throws a look over at Bruce and says, falsely saccharine, "Call me a sentimentalist, it's the same kind I used back in Sarajevo way back when."

Jason's aim is unwavering, but he asks, "Why?"

"Nostalgia, mostly."

"Not the bomb, you idiot." He has to imagine this is the first time someone's called the Joker an idiot to his face. Jason doesn't revel in it he just clarifies, "Why me? Why them?"

Joker sighs, burying his hands in his pant pockets. He says, "There's just too many of you now, I mean, honestly. Batman, Robin three point O, Nightwing, and now you're back from the grave? It's a lot to handle. Someone's gotta go."

Jason drums his thumb restlessly against the grip of the gun. He hasn't pulled the trigger yet though, so that has to be a good sign. Maybe.

"Just one?" Jason puzzles.

Honestly, Dick can't tell if he's asking because he needs the answers--not that Dick would blame him, Jason isn't the first person to be hurt by the Joker and need to fathom an actual reason for it beyond simple cruelty--or because he's stalling for something. Stalling for what? He already admitted no one knows he's here, and it looks like he's given up on breaking out of the ropes.

Maybe he's hoping he can buy Dick and Bruce time to think of something. Dick can't believe he would trust them with that, after everything. At least if they fail they won't have to live with having let him down again.

Thinking like that probably isn't helpful.

"Well the game needs players to be fun," Joker says, like it's obvious. "I can't get rid of all of you."

"This isn't a game, jackass."

"Sure it is, and it's timed," he says, tapping at his watch with a little nod. "Tick tock."

With that he paces back towards the support beam, until he's standing a little ways behind Jason. And Jason tracks his path with the barrel of the gun the whole way, until he's out of sight and Jason can't aim at him anymore. Then, with the gun to the floor, he looks across at Dick and Bruce for the first time since accepting the weapon.

He's looking across at them, but Dick's not sure he's seeing them.

At a guess, Dick would say he's trying to think of a way out of this particular scenario. It's what Dick's thinking about, anyway. And he really doesn't see a lot of options.

Every possible route ends with them dying. Jason doesn't shoot one of them, Joker blows the place up. Jason shoots the Joker, a bunch of henchmen come in and shoot them before they can get loose from their bonds. Jason shoots one of them, it minimizes the number of deaths. Dick's never been less sure he wanted to hear what Jason was thinking.

"So, who's it gonna be?" Joker asks with interest, dropping to a crouch to speak directly into Jason's ear.

Jason actually flinches, at the sudden proximity or the voice.

Dick wriggles his wrists, testing this time the strength of the pipe the cuffs are locked around. Maybe they could knock it loose from the wall? It wouldn't be ideal for a fight, his wrists would still be trapped together, but nothing about this situation is exactly ideal.

He stills as Joker's voice continues, "Bats would probably be my first choice. How much time did we give him to save you and he still couldn't make it? I don't think he gave it his all. Then he replaced you, ouch. And gave you this."

Joker pokes at the scar on Jason's neck, like a kid poking at a fascinating bug just to see what it does.

Jason turns to snap at him, but Joker's apparently not looking to get his hand bit a second time, because he quickly yanks it away. Jason's jaw clamps shut on empty air, and he says brusquely, "Keep your fucking hands off of me."

"But then," Joker says, moving on as if nothing happened. "You could pick our dear little Nightwing. I mean, he should've warned you when Bats picked you to be his next apprentice, right? Your choice."

There's another second of hesitation. Of trying to reason a way out of this. And then Jason slams his head back into the beam with an angry huff and raises the gun. First towards Dick.

He looks him right in the eye, like he's trying to say something, but he doesn't actually say anything. Just taps his thumb anxiously.

And Dick realizes that's the message. Jason's trying to tell him how he can get loose from the handcuffs, without a lockpick. Jason already told him how to get loose from handcuffs without a pick, all the way back in the Batcave. Dick has to figure out how to dislocate his thumbs.

"Jason," Bruce says.

And that's all he has to say. Jason's head jerks abruptly in his direction, the gun snapping over with it. He looks, faintly, like a trapped animal. Frantic and ready to lash out at whatever backs him into a corner.

Dick presses his hands together behind him, pushing one hand down over his thumb in an effort to pop it out of the socket. It's a little more difficult than he was hoping. As it turns out, the human body is designed to keep joints in place.

"Don't," Jason says. "Don't say anything."

"Aw, let's hear him out," Joker says.

The Red Hood has been terrorizing Gotham with a gun an awful lot like the one he's holding right now for just over a year now. Not once in all that time, Dick's sure, has he ever been conflicted about a shot he took. Not once has his hand been anything but steady. Not until now.

He aims indecisively back and forth between them before settling back on Bruce, and his hand shakes like California. He says desperately, "I don't wanna do this."

The youth in his voice is heartbreaking.

Not nearly as heartbreaking as when Bruce answers, with a voice like stone, "Of course you do."

"What?"

"It's," Bruce starts, cutting himself off. Like he's having trouble saying it. He glances quickly from Dick back to Jason and says, "It's what you do, Jason. You're a killer."

"Fuck you," Dick says, before he can stop himself.

It's probably more on instinct than anything else, but the second Dick speaks Jason's aim swivels back to him. At his side, the Joker's eyebrows raise in something resembling shock as he says, "Damn Batman, that's cold. Go on."

"He is," Bruce tells Dick, and Jason's aiming at him again. Bruce looks him right in the eye and says, "You don't do it because you think you're protecting people, you enjoy it. The Pit changed you, and--And I just don't think you can stop yourself. I don't think you want to stop. It made you a monster."

It's like he's been slapped in the face.

Jason's face crumples. Betrayed and hurt in a way Dick didn't think Bruce was capable of causing anymore. He tries to hide it, to slip that mask of rage back over the rest of his emotions, like he's always done since learning it protected him from the world.

It doesn't work. That pain is still written all across his face.

Dick presses his left thumb back with a renewed vigor. If only because the sooner he gets himself free, the sooner he can be at Jason's side.

"That's not true," Dick insists, but Jason shows no indication of hearing him. Bruce has all of his attention.

Which, Dick realizes with a flicker of guilt, is what Bruce wants. Bruce spares a momentary glance towards Dick before telling Jason hollowly, "I should've stopped you last year, when I had the chance."

Bruce doesn't even remotely believe a word he's saying. He's deflecting. He's saying just what he knows will cut Jason the deepest, to make sure that Jason chooses him. Instead of Dick.

Only that last blow didn't only give the game away to Dick.

To say he should've killed Jason when he had the chance is to say not to believe a word coming out of his mouth. And Bruce is a scary good actor. The most skilled manipulator Dick knows. But even he's not good enough to make a single one of them believe he regrets sparing a life, least of all Jason's life.

Recognition flickers across Jason's features, and he nods and answers, "Yeah. You should have."

The room suddenly seems very quiet, as Jason lowers the gun. But he doesn't put it down. No, he knows he can't. The way he's figured it, he's only left with one more option.

The muzzle of the gun is pressed against Jason's right temple an instant later.

This time, his hand is steady.

"Jason, no," Bruce says, and if it wasn't obvious he was lying before it is now.

"Ooh, look at you! Outside the box thinking. Who saw that one coming?" Joker says, clapping his hands, like this is all some stupid play he's watching. Then, "Technically that wasn't one of the choices, but I'll allow it. Fire at will."

"Don't," Dick says. His hands are sweating. One hand just slips right off the other where he tries to apply any pressure.

Jason takes in a steadying breath. His finger tenses over the trigger. Before he can actually follow through, the Joker clears his throat pointedly.

"Before you do though," he interjects, holding up an index finger. "Can we play this through, real quick? You kill one of them, you get to live, maybe you get a shot at me later down the line. You kill yourself, you already know they just move on. Do you really want me to just walk away? I mean, I thought we had something special."

"Believe it or not," Jason says. "Some things are more important than killing you."

"They don't care."

"They do care," Jason insists, screwing his eyes shut.

Joker scoffs. "Leave the jokes to me, kid."

"They're my _family."_

"You don't have a family. And you won't come back again," Joker says, like a promise. "I'll feed you to Killer Croc if I have to. You're staying dead."

"Good."

"No, not good," Dick says, momentarily abandoning the more subtle attempts at breaking free to jerk against the cuffs. A failing attempt to get to him and stop him. "You don't have to do this, Jason."

"I'm not even supposed to be here, bluebird," Jason says. "Unless it's for a reason."

"This isn't it," Bruce says. "Please."

"Can we get this show on the road? Clock's ticking."

"Shut your fat mouth for five seconds," Jason snarls. He readjusts the muzzle against the side of his head. Swallows and says, "Just try to forgive me, okay?"

Dick feels more than he hears the pop as he finally manages to slip his thumb out of the socket. A second too late. It's followed by the faint click of a trigger pulling back. And then.... _Bang!_

Bruce screams.

Dick's fairly certain he does too.

Jason flinches.

And then the room goes so quiet he's positive everyone else can hear his heartbeat. No bullet plunges through Jason's skull. There's no blood, no final gasping for breath. Just a bright red banner on a stick, with the word _Bang!_ printed across it in yellow block lettering. And Jason, sitting there frozen, eyes screwed tight shut, waiting for a bullet never comes.

The silence finally breaks when the Joker bursts into a peal of obnoxious laughter, clutching at his side with one hand and patting Jason on the shoulder with the other.

"My bad," Joker says. "I gave you the prop gun."

Jason takes in a shuddering breath and opens his eyes, taking in the cartoonish banner. And Dick almost wishes he'd close his eyes again, if only so he wouldn't have to witness that expression in them.

He's beginning to realize that neither Jason nor Bruce are as fearless as he's believed them to be.


	26. Retribution

They endure the Joker's ridiculing laugh for the better part of a minute. Until Jason cuts it off with an enraged shout, hurling the prop gun violently across the room. It busts a hole clear through the graffitied drywall, which is a testament either to Jason's temper or the poor building quality of the house they're in.

Joker whistles lowly, eyeing the wall before looking back to Jason.

"You better get a handle on those anger issues, kid. The stress'll kill you," Joker says, earning a set of matching glares from Dick and Bruce. He frowns and asks, "Too soon?"

"Yeah," Dick answers dryly. "I'd say twenty seconds is a little too soon."

Whatever quip Joker has prepared in response is cut short, because he's made the phenomenal mistake of staying on the ground by Jason's side. Dick learned after about one conversation with the Red Hood that if you don't wanna get hit, it's up to you to stand outside of reaching distance. It's apparently taken Joker a little longer to pick this up.

Jason's elbow drives it's way into Joker's stomach with an oddly satisfying _thwump._ His arm is already on route to elbowing Joker in the face, too, when Joker catches it.

"Let go of me," Jason snarls, attempting to jerk his arm away.

"Right now, seventy-five percent of your limbs work fine," Joker says. "Wanna bump it down to fifty?"

"I only need twenty-five to kill you."

"Funny, that hasn't worked for you so far."

But Jason gives his arm another tug, and this time Joker lets go. Standing the rest of the way up and pacing around the back of the beam, to Jason's other side.

Dick's fairly confident that, with the element of surprise, Joker won't be too much of an issue. He'll be an issue of course, he's always an issue, but Dick can handle him. He's going to have to. There's two main factors that concern him, though, and he's trying to account for them before he gives up the fact that he can slip the cuffs.

First being that he has no way of knowing for sure whether Joker has any actual weapons on him, and in a fight that knowledge is crucial. Not to mention that the stairs or the rest of the house may very well be boobytrapped in some ludicrous fashion.

When dealing with this asshole, gags that are deadlier than they are funny are always a concern.

Second is Joker's aforementioned backup. The men he claims to have on standby to come in and take them out if anything happens to him. Dick can't know how many of them there are, or how heavily armed they may be.

Not to mention that just because the gun was fake, that doesn't mean the same is true for the bomb Joker warned about.

Okay, that's three concerns.

And Joker opening his stupid mouth again makes four. He's saying, "But I gotta say, your conviction really is something to behold. Even if your execution leaves something to be desired."

"Thanks for the performance review," Jason says. "But how many stars would you give me on Yelp?"

The cool aloofness he attempts to adopt alongside the sarcasm falls short, what with the past few minutes still hanging so heavily in the air, and the less than subtle attempt to lean as far away from Joker as the ropes will allow.

"Three," Joker says, like he's actually considered the question. "See, you've been walking the line between hero and bad guy for awhile now--Not that you're doing much walking at the moment, but metaphorically speaking..."

"Are you going somewhere with this?"

"Well, the pitch was gonna be a little more convincing after you tried to shoot one of _them,"_ he says, before turning to Bruce and adding, "But the kid never was good at doing what he was supposed to, eh, Batman?"

"The pitch?" Dick echoes cautiously.

"Jason here has been breaking the rules," Joker explains. "You can't play for both teams, Mr. Hood. Pretty soon you're gonna realize you can't cross back over to their side, and I wanna be there for you when you do."

It's Bruce's voice that asks, "Why?"

"Enemy of my enemy and all that," he says, waving a hand dismissively. "Think about it, Jason. You were about to sacrifice yourself for them and they still won't claim you as one of their own. They think you're totally coo coo for Coco Puffs. Except in this case the Coco Puffs are murder."

Jason scoffs. "You're one to talk."

"Exactly! I find your crazy so refreshing," Joker answers with a wistful sigh. "You're a little too serious, but we can work on that. And then think of all the fun we can have together."

"I'm nothing like you," Jason insists. And Dick's not sure who he's really trying to convince.

"Oh, so you're not using fear to manipulate people into doing what you want for shits and giggles?"

"I don't take pleasure in human suffering, you sadistic fuck."

"Yes, you do. You _like_ it," Joker croons. "Doesn't he, Batman?"

"Leave him alone, Joker."

"Killing you was one thing. But you coming back to burn the city down? That was way better," Joker says, clapping his hands together ecstatically. "You're my _legacy._ Just look at all the chaos you--"

They're spared the rest of Joker's manic rambling, as Jason decks him square in the jaw. Hard, too, if the way Jason winces and shakes out his fist is any indication.

Over on the ground, Joker rubs a hand over his jaw with a small nod. Not the least bit surprised. Which he really shouldn't be. At a certain point, it becomes his fault for not taking any precautions against being hit, really.

Speaking of precautions.

"That's it," Joker says, sounding disturbingly similar to a scolding mother. "I'm revoking your hand privileges."

Joker snatches Jason's wrist, and he's snapping Jason's pinkie backwards with a sickening crack before anyone has time to know what's happening. Jason shouts and Dick forgets all about the element of surprise or having a proper thought out plan or any of it. He yanks his hand through the cuff, barely wincing at the process of moving a thumb that's not aligned properly, because it hurts a lot less than what'll happen to Jason if he doesn't.

As it turns out, the simple action of slipping his wrist from the cuff is enough to spare Jason, at least momentarily.

The metal clangs obnoxiously as it falls back against the pipe it's secured around. Joker pauses with his hand hovering over the next finger, in favor of turning suspiciously towards the noise.

Dick freezes, raising his eyebrows innocently.

"Is there something on my face?" he asks.

"You look fine as ever, Nightie," Joker says. "Comfortable over there?"

"I wasn't gonna say anything, but since you asked, maybe someone could put the heater on? Basement's pretty chilly, I think there's a draft."

Bruce gives him a look, one part disapproving but two parts calculating. More than likely, he's trying to figure out the same thing Joker is, which is whether or not that rattle means Dick's slipped the cuffs.

And Dick's already thinking out a plan of action for when he gets Joker to walk over here to figure that much out himself. Which, frankly, involves a lot more violence than is probably strictly necessary. They really only need to incapacitate the Joker, which he could reasonably accomplish by getting the chain of the now loose cuffs around his neck, choke him just long enough to knock him out.

But if he happens to have to rough him up a little in the process, say break one or two of his fingers, then that's just an unfortunate consequence of their escape attempt. No way around it, really.

Jason apparently has other plans.

He must decide he's uncomfortable with Joker's focus being on anyone else, because before Joker can even get up to investigate the sound, which it looks like he's about to do, Jason fucking headbutts him. Asshole.

Joker groans, bringing a hand up to prod gingerly at his forehead, murmuring about how, "That's definitely gonna bruise."

"That's gotta be embarrassing for you," Jason says. Then, just to be petty or something, "Bitch."

When his hand comes away it's only to take a fistful of Jason's hair, to turn his head to look at him as he hisses, "I've put in too much time to just kill you again, kid, but don't think I won't."

Obviously Dick won't let that happen.

"Yeah, but you must be just a little worried I'll claw back out again," Jason says. "I'm not your fucking legacy, Joker, I'm retribution. And hey, I'm already dead, which means I got nothing to lose. But that doesn't scare you, does it? That's not why you really want me on your side, right?"

Joker's left eye twitches.

He draws a hand back, as if to strike, and Jason doesn't even flinch. Jason has to know Dick's figured the handcuffs out. This has to be an intentional distraction.

But the strike never comes, because for a second time Joker's attention is drawn away by something as simple as a sound. Only it's not the handcuffs rattling this time, it comes from upstairs. A gentle thud, just barely audible through the floor, but present enough to be of interest.

The whole basement falls into a fleeting quiet before Joker says, "Is there a surprise guest appearance I should know about?"

"What, are we not enough for you?"

Jason's answer is punctuated by another thud, this one softer, and probably only noticeable because they're listening for it. But his expression remains impassive, faintly challenging.

Maybe Dick's not the one Jason's stalling for.

"Then what's that ruckus?"

"Uh, what ruckus?" Dick says, arching an eyebrow.

Jason clears his throat before adding, "Could you describe the nature of the ruckus?"

The practiced neutrality in Jason's face vanishes as a single gunshot rings out upstairs, followed by a tense silence. Jason looks, unbelievably, concerned. It's only for a split second, and then he slips that stony mask back on, but it's there. And Dick's definitely not the only one who was paying enough attention to catch it.

"Don't you know it's rude to bring guests over without introducing them first?" Joker says, releasing his grip on Jason's hair and starting calmly towards the staircase. He shoots over his shoulder, "We'll be back to your regularly scheduled programming after a brief break."

He's barely out the door before Dick's up and on his feet. The cuffs dangle uselessly off his left wrist, and Bruce shoots him a baffled look, asking, "How did you do that?"

"Guess it was Jason's turn to teach me a few tricks."

"Took you long enough," Jason says, the words lacking any bite as his shoulders sag in relief.

Dick snatches up the rusted nail from off the ground as there's a distant shouting upstairs. He places it in Bruce's palms, asking, "Can you pick the lock with this?"

"Yes."

Dick nods and darts to Jason's side, peering quickly around the beam towards the half open door before turning to Jason. His hands hover an inch away from the rope, trying to figure the best way to undo it. The knot's tied at the back of the beam, right. He scrambles around the beam and he's only just started pulling at the rope in an attempt to undo the knot when a stair creaks.

Ah, shit.

He braces for a fight and turns around, and comes face to face with, "Ti--Robin?"

"What are you doing here?" Bruce asks, getting to his feet.

"Saving your skins, what's it look like?"

"This wasn't the plan, half-pint," Jason says.

"What you had wasn't a plan, it was a half-baked notion to throw yourself into the line of fire for cheap revenge, and it was reckless," Tim says, crouching down to help Dick untie the knot with a roll of his eyes. "What _I_ have is a plan."

"Jesus Christ, you're just a mini-Bat aren't you? Get off my case."

"Wait, so he did know where you were going?" Dick asks.

"Who do you think told him your comms weren't working?" Tim says. "Keep up."

"Yeah, keep up, birdbrain," Jason seconds.

With Bruce's help, they're able to undo the last of the knots. Jason doesn't even wait for someone to come around and help him, throwing the rope away from him as if it's utterly repulsive and then attempting to push himself up on his own. He doesn't have to try long before Dick comes around to help him, slipping his arm across his shoulder in a way that's become a little too familiar these past days.

Once Jason's on his feet, Bruce nods towards Tim and asks, "What's your plan?"

They start up the stairs as Tim talks them through the path towards the exit, with a quick note about how he took out six of Joker's guards on his way in, which only leaves four to get past on the way out. Four's a good number. They can work with four.

Getting up the stairs with Jason is slower going than Dick would like at this exact moment. He almost drops him once, when Jason's toe catches against the lip of one of the steps. They just manage to avoid toppling over.

"O-hoh," a voice greets them at the top of the stairs. "Now it's a party."

The room is clouded with a heavy smoke, courtesy, no doubt, of a few of Tim's smoke bombs. It's not so heavy that Dick can't make out the pair of figures looming just across the room. One of whom he recognizes, the other he assumes is one of the remaining guards.

"We have different definitions of party," Dick remarks.

"Do I count three birds over there?" Joker says. Then, with a gasp of mock surprise, "Robin, is that you? You look different. Did you cut your hair?"

As heavily as Jason's been leaning on Dick, he shrugs him off pretty damn quick to put himself between the Joker and Tim. With a small nod, he says, "If you take care of the guards I can handle the clown."

"No you can't," Bruce and Dick tell him at once.

"We don't have time for this," Tim huffs impatiently.

There's good reason he can't, and it's that if Jason goes up against the Joker, only one of them walks away from that fight. Which is bad on a good day. Today hasn't proven itself to be a good day. Jason's odds of winning that fight are way too small for Dick to even consider letting him do it.

Tim's also right. Dick's forcibly reminded of that fact by the crack of a fresh gunshot. A bullet lodging itself just above the doorframe.

Bruce rushes Tim back behind the nearest cover, which looks like a couch but is tough to make out through the fog. In the meantime Dick guides Jason around the first corner, ducking out from under the gunfire, where they press their backs into the wall as more gunfire rings through the air. He thinks he sees the doorway to a kitchen to his left.

The rapid-fire dies off after a few seconds. Dick weighs their odds.

There's four armed guards plus the Joker, although Dick only counted two in the room, vs. four of them. Where only three can stand on their own, and only one still has any of the weapons and gadgets they're used to. This should be interesting, to say the least.

He catches sight of one of the unaccounted for men coming down a flight of stairs from the second story of the house. An instant before the man catches sight of him. He hears the fight breaking out in the living room as he sprints to meet the man halfway up the stairs, catching his wrist as he pulls a handgun and twisting it out of his grip.

The man decks him with his free hand, and it throws both of them off balance enough that they tumble down the rest of the stairs. He gets a sharp knee to the ribs when they hit ground level, and he doesn't even think it's on purpose.

Regardless, they're both scrambling to get to their feet before the other.

There's a quick scuffle before Dick drops the guy with a heavy right hook. He turns around and Jason's gone. A quick search for the gun the man dropped proves fruitless, too.

"Shit," he says. "Jason? Jason!"

He scrambles down the hallway towards the kitchen, hoping against hope that it's the fourth guard Jason went after and not who he thinks it is. There's less smoke clouding the kitchen, and no sign of the fourth gunman. What's worse, no sign of Jason.

What he does find is the bomb. Because of course that would turn out to be real even when the gun wasn't.

Sixteen minutes on the clock.

He doesn't think he has time to stand here and try to diffuse it, not before Jason does something incredibly stupid in the next room. He can either work on diffusing the bomb and just hope Jason doesn't get himself killed, or go and stop Jason and just hope he can do it in the next sixteen minutes.

Fifteen.

"This is so not my week."

And then he's sprinting out of the kitchen and back down the hall. He's going so fast he almost trips on the body in the middle of the hall, even though he's the one who left it there.

He can hear the fight going on in the next room, but it's impossible to differentiate between who's fighting who. There's no more rapid-fire, which means either Bruce and Tim have wrestled their guns from the men or they're out of ammunition. Or the combat is too close to be firing bullets like that.

Dick rounds the corner and struggles against the haze to decipher what's going on. He's familiar enough with the sound of Bruce slamming someone's face into a wall by now that he doesn't have to peer through the smoke to know it when he hears it. He picks Tim out by the windows, kicking one of the guard's legs out from underneath him.

He shoots a look over in Bruce's direction to call, "Where's Nightwing?"

"Here," Dick answers, shooting a hand up like it's rollcall in school. He's across the room in time to take out guard number four before Tim has to, launching off the coffee table and landing a knee to the asshole's face.

That's almost everyone accounted for.

Now really isn't the time for almost.

"You had Jason, where is he?"

"And where's the Joker?" Bruce adds, shooting a look across the room.

"Jason got hold of a gun," Dick says. "Also, there's like twelve minutes on the bomb."

There's only one feasible place for them to have gone to, Dick realizes once he gives it some thought. They can't have passed through the kitchen because he would've seen them, Jason can't make it up a flight of stairs, and the front door is off the foyer on the opposite end of the living room. It couldn't have opened and closed without Bruce or Tim noticing.

Everyone else must realize it to, because all three of them are looking back at the basement door. Just in time to catch the laughter that echoes out from the doorway.

"Someone needs to clear everyone out," Tim says, indicating the gunmen unconscious on the ground.

Dick leaves Bruce and Tim to debate that, because he doesn't have time to work that out with them, not now. He starts down the basement stairs, taking two steps at a time, and skids to a halt at the bottom of the steps.

Joker's on the floor a few yards away. Jason has him pinned to floor, one knee planted firmly over each of Joker's elbows. At a guess, they tumbled down the stairs much in the same way Dick and the gunman did, and Jason just made sure to come out on top.

He has the gun pressed right between Joker's eyes, and that clown is still grinning like a maniac.

"Jason," Dick says, taking a step further inside.

Jason doesn't break eye contact with Joker, not even for a second. He steadies his grip on the gun and says, "Go back upstairs. This is between me and him."

"Bomb goes off in ten," Dick says, with little confidence it'll mean anything.

Ten minutes is plenty of time to pull a trigger and dash.

"I don't care," Jason growls. "Get out of here."

"What's the matter, Jason, don't want an audience?" Joker says. Then, rolling his head to the side to address Dick, "Where's Batman? He should get to see this happen. Ooh, ooh, and the kid too! I wanna go out with a bang. Hm, poor word choice."

"Shut up!"

Joker breaks into another fit of laughter, and Jason cringes for a split second before steadying his aim once more.

"Jason, listen--"

"What is so fucking _funny?"_ Jason snaps.

"You are," Joker says. As if that's the proper response to the guy holding a gun on you. "You wanna shoot me because of what I did to you? Do it! Come on boy wonder, prove you're what I made you!"

"You're wrong," Jason says through gritted teeth. "This isn't about me."

Dick hears booted footsteps coming down behind him, distinctly Bruce's. They must've carried the last men from the house. Now all that's left is to get Jason and the Joker out.

"It's not?" Joker asks, like a prompt. Like this is nothing more than entertainment for him.

Because of course it is. Joker's been trying to goad one of them into killing him for years. Half the reason Dick won't do it is because he knows that's how the Joker wins.

"You said it yourself. I punish bad guys," Jason says, his aim unwavering. "It's my whole thing."

A click as he pulls the slide back.

"Jason," Bruce says firmly, and Jason freezes. Either out of habit built back when that voice was basically god, or because he's just been too absorbed with the Joker to notice Bruce even showed up. Whatever the reason, the spell is broken when Bruce orders sharply, "Don't."

"How are you gonna stop me, Batman?" Jason asks, spitting the name out like it's a dirty word. "This fucking clown took all your fancy toys away. No batarangs this time, you're gonna have to come over here and stop me yourself. And even your reflexes aren't that quick."

"He might surprise you," Joker chips in. "Let's find out."

"I don't want to fight you, Jason."

"I've heard that one before."

"This isn't who you are," Bruce insists. "You're not a murderer."

Jason answers with a derisive snort. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Guys, we're running out of time," Dick says, shooting an anxious glance back over his shoulder, in the direction of the kitchen.

He can't see the timer from here, obviously. And he hasn't been counting the seconds, he's been a little preoccupied to keep track of the numbers like that. There can't be more than five minutes left, though. Five minutes to talk Jason down and help him up the stairs before they all die in a fiery explosion.

It doesn't seem like a hell of a lot of time.

"Then _go!"_ Jason says, turning a glare over his shoulder.

Dick's expecting to see that burning rage that he's accustomed to being met with. What shakes him is miserable desperation. He's struck with the thought that maybe Jason wants them to leave him behind, as if they ever could.

"Put the gun down, Jason," Bruce urges.

It's less an order this time and more a plea, and Jason has to hear that. He doesn't listen, of course he doesn't, but for a second his aim wavers.

"Don't put it down, come on, shoot me! But just wait a minute longer. Right before the timer runs out," Joker says, nodding encouragingly. "That way we can do this dance again in hell. How's that sound?"

"You're insane," Jason hisses.

"And you're the Red Hood. Let's do it, let's go out together. Pull the trigger."

"Jason, don't," Bruce says.

"And what would have me do? Let him walk? After everything he's done?"

"Let him live, see justice done the right way. Come _home."_

"That doesn't work, you have to finish it."

The longer Bruce and Joker go back and forth like this, the more distressed Jason looks. Frantic and trapped. Dick wants nothing more than to rush to his side and comfort him, but he stays back. Has to stay back, because Jason and that gun and those feelings are a dangerous combination.

Joker adds, like the devil on his shoulder, "Do it your way. It's what you were put here for."

"You don't get to define who I am!" Jason shouts, so aggressive Dick can already hear his voice going hoarse. "None of you do! You don't get that right."

"Clock's ticking," Joker urges.

Jason looks once more over his shoulder, makes eye contact with Dick. It's not clear what he's searching for, not even clear whether he finds it or not, then he's turning away again.

With a harrowing scream, Jason's finger tightens around the trigger.

Once and then twice. Dick's surging forward on impulse alone before he realizes the bullets have only been buried in the floor, less than inch away from the Joker's face. It's impossible for him to have missed.

Joker flinches. Realizes he's not dead and starts to laugh.

Starts to speak, actually, but Jason flips the gun around in his hand and hits him over the head with it, and Joker goes deathly quiet. Deathly still, except that he is, against all the odds, still breathing.

Jason holds the gun out behind him and says softly, "Take it."

"What?" Dick asks with a frown.

"Take it!" he shouts again, only this time his voice cracks. "Before I change my fucking mind."

Dick and Bruce are both rushing forward then, Dick taking the gun from Jason's hand and casting it across the floor. It skids halfway to the opposite wall, and Dick's helping Jason up, and Bruce is lifting the Joker over his shoulders, and there's got to be less than two minutes on the clock.

Hauling Jason up the stairs is even harder work the second time. The tumble down the stairs might have something to do with it, but he feels like he's carrying more of Jason's weight this time around.

More of the smoke has dissipated from the living room by the time they make it out of the basement. The front door is easy enough to spot. Keeping Jason from tripping when there's a myriad of broken and tipped over furniture spread across the floor is a different story, but they make it quick enough.

That is to say, the house isn't coming down around them by the time they make it.

They're out the front door and booking it as far away as fast as they can when the house comes down. Bruce makes it as far as the middle of the road, Dick and Jason the sidewalk.

It's still close enough that the sheer force of the blast knocks them down hard, and knocks the breath right out of Dick's chest.

He's had enough explosions to last a lifetime, he thinks.

He looks up from the ground to see Tim and a pair of GCPD officers sprinting towards Bruce. There's a ringing in his ears that blocks out any conversation they might be having, but Bruce is saying something and then setting the Joker down carefully on the ground. The officers are handcuffing him, even though he's out cold, and Bruce swaps some inaudible conversation with Tim.

For a split second Dick thinks the ringing in his ears is getting worse, before he recognizes the sound as sirens, and not coming from inside his own head.

He coughs a few times and gets himself up on his hands and knees. A quick look over at Jason shows him doing the same, with moderately less success.

Dick pushes aside the ache that's beginning to appear in his limbs, he'll deal with it later. First he has to help Jason back up. Jason, who immediately loses his balance again and catches himself with a hand on the hood of a parked car.

The explosion was enough to set off the car alarm but that, apparently, is. The obnoxious blaring is added to the rest of the cacophony.

Jason coughs, shooting a look back at the burning house behind them.

"Are you okay?" Dick asks, over the din.

It takes Jason a second to collect his breath, and then he answers simply, "Are you?"

The ringing finally dies down, but before Dick can process an answer, Bruce is coming over. Rushing over, actually. Urgently.

He claps a hand on Dick's shoulder, meant to reassure both of them in equal parts. They're both still here. They made it out. They're good. Dick brings a hand up to pat his before Bruce pulls it away.

He turns to Jason and Dick tenses involuntarily. He doesn't want to put out another fight already.

Jason opens his mouth to speak, but before he can Bruce surges forward and he's engulfed in two hundred something odd pounds of concerned dad. Jason's breath hitches, and Dick watches his hands come up in half fists, as if to defend himself from an attack, before he seems to realize that's not what's happening.

For a second he looks lost, and then his hands are clutching the back of Bruce's cape so tight his knuckles are white. He makes a sound that, out of courtesy, Dick will avoid describing as a whimper and buries his face in Bruce's shoulder.

When he tilts his head to the side tears track through the dirt on the side of his face.

"It's gonna be okay, son," Bruce says.

And at least for the moment, Jason just holds on tighter, like maybe he believes him.


	27. Old Lasagna

"On the record, I was against the code word being 'bitch.'"

Dick feels a tired smile pulling at his face despite himself.

The three of them are huddled in the Batcave. Bruce is hovering over Tim's shoulder, stitching a cut Dick doesn't remember the kid getting, while Dick sits across the table with a long forgotten ice pack held loosely against his thumb.

Getting so preoccupied with the escape attempt that he forgot to try and relocate his thumb until after the house blew up probably wasn't the smartest thing he's ever done. But hey, it's still attached and only moderately swollen, so it's probably also not the stupidest thing he's ever done. He can't really complain.

Anyway, Tim's been walking them through what his and Jason's original plan actually was. Dick asked about it mostly to distract Tim. He gets the impression Tim's mostly entertaining the question to distract them.

The idea was for Tim to tail them and hang back in the event of a capture. Jason would give him a code word when one or more of them had slipped whatever bonds they had, and then Tim could create a decoy and they could escape. Where their plans apparently differed was that Jason never meant for Tim to engage in any dangerous combat. He was just supposed to set the smoke bombs, maybe sneak up on a guard or two, and leave the rest for them to handle.

Dick can see how Tim would've had different ideas and, from where he's sitting, it's hard to be upset by it.

He refrains from pointing out how quickly Jason's become so protective over Tim, the kid he claims to hate.

"Wait," he says with a small frown. "So you were listening the whole time?"

Tim offers a nod that almost looks guilty. He says, "I tried to get to you guys before Jason pulled the trigger. I only made it as far as the garage."

"You tried, that's the best you could do," Bruce reminds him.

Although this would be a far more difficult conversation if that gun had been more than a prop. Jason could be somewhere much worse than in the medical room with Alfred and Leslie Thompkins, getting that bone in his leg fixed for the third damn time. Dick's not even sure who called Leslie, if Tim and Alfred just had her on standby or what. Tonight's been hectic.

But it could've been so much worse.

Dick does his best to derail that particular train of thought. He clears his throat and asks, "How'd you guys know you'd be able to hear the code word, if the comms were jammed?"

"Jason said he'd set it to a different frequency than the one you guys were on," Tim says. And his tone alone makes it clear how stupid he thinks that is, but he has to be sure they understand that by adding, "I told him that wouldn't ensure that frequency wouldn't be blocked, too. He was just like, 'I'll burn that bridge when I get to it, kid.' Big dumb idiot."

Dick and Bruce exchange a quick look, and Dick's relieved to see he's not the only one trying not to smile at Tim's Jason impersonation.

"Yeah, that sounds like him," Bruce says, shaking his head as he finishes taping some gauze over Tim's shoulder.

"Still think he's a jerk?" Dick asks.

It's intended as playful ribbing, after all Tim's complaining at the breakfast table. After he's asked he realizes now might not be the best time for playful ribbing, at least not on this topic.

But Tim sends a distracted look towards the medbay doors and answers reluctantly, "I guess he's our jerk."

"That's what I like to hear."

He follows Tim's gaze and he senses Bruce looking that way too.

Technically the doors haven't been closed for that long. It can't have been more than twenty to thirty or so minutes that they even made it here. But Dick gave up all concept of time after he stopped having to stress about that ticking clock and, frankly, this one night already feels like at least three anyway.

Tim breaks the lull of silence after a minute with the question, "Why wouldn't he do it?"

Dick sighs.

He's been trying to avoid asking himself the same question, at least for a little while. He's got plenty else to worry about for the time being, without adding unanswerable questions to the list.

But he can't fault Tim for asking, really.

Killing the Joker has been Jason's reason for living since...well, probably since he first clawed his way out of the Lazarus Pit, if Dick's being honest. It was his destiny, or he convinced himself it was anyway. And Jason's convictions are forged of a much stronger metal than any gun. Strong enough that he was more than willing to go toe to toe with that psychopath even when he could barely stand.

Dick can't wrap his head around Jason giving that up. Especially not when he finally had a shot. The clearest shot, in fact, that he's probably ever going to get.

He can't quite explain why he feels so conflicted about it, either.

"I don't know," he admits.

Bruce gets up. Paces a few steps away from the table they're sat at, arms folded pensively.

Dick is a longtime observer of all the different variations of Brooding Bruce. Even still, it's tough to get a read on what he's thinking. He exchanges a quick look with Tim, who looks just as tired as he feels and doesn't seem like he has an answer either.

He ruffles Tim's hair a little as he walks past him to stand next to Bruce. He's found that, when he can't figure it out on his own, sometimes it helps to just ask, "What're you thinking, B?"

"It's nothing," Bruce answers predictably. Dick nudges him wordlessly with his elbow, and Bruce just sighs. Says, "It should never have gotten that far in the first place."

Actually, now he's said it out loud, that answer's probably predictable too. He could've guessed Bruce feels guilty, but to what degree it's justified is up in the air until Dick can pinpoint what, exactly he feels guilty about.

Frankly, there's a lot to choose from. Because Bruce is right, Jason never should've been put in that position to begin with. Dick doesn't know how they let it get this far.

Dick shouldn't have lost track of him in the escape, but they never should've had to make an escape. Every one of them knew Jane Doe could change faces, and Jason was somehow the only one who made the connection. That it might not be her leaving Arkham. That she was just in someone else's cell while they slipped out.

But they were sloppy. Dick was too pissed at Bruce to focus and Bruce was too buys being upset Dick was pissed at him and neither of them were thinking.

And that's just what's freshest in Dick's memory. They're gonna need a lot more time if he wants to delve into all the ways they've let Jason down lately.

It doesn't help that Jason refuses to let them down in return.

Dick hears Jason's voice in his head, an instant before pulling that damned trigger, where all he asked was that they forgive him. As if he's the only one who needs to be forgiven.

"No," Dick agrees, shoulders dropping. "It shouldn't have."

Bruce looks at him with tired eyes. "I didn't believe he could do it, Dick."

"What, kill the Joker?"

It sounds awfully remorseful for an I-told-you-so.

"Not kill the Joker," Bruce corrects. He scrubs a hand down over his face, saying, "Or anyone, for that matter. I _wanted_ to believe he could put the gun down, but I didn't."

He wants to be mad, but he's not sure how much of a hypocrite it would make him.

He looks away, chewing at his bottom lip in thought. It's tough to be sure what he thought or didn't think in the past. Memory tends to alter stuff like that, for better or worse. He does know he's not totally guiltless, where lack of faith in Jason is concerned.

After a second's thought, Dick shoots a glance back at Tim and says, "Why don't you go get some rest? It's been a long night. I'll come update you when anything changes."

"I'll stay," Tim says, ostensibly casual about it.

Bruce frowns, saying, "If you're going to stay up, at least grab something to eat from upstairs. You didn't eat much at dinner."

"Neither did you," Tim counters.

For a second, Dick thinks Bruce is going to push it. Instead he just shrugs, a silent touché.

The three of them lapse back into what's a less than comfortable, and primarily default silence. Dick stands at Bruce's side a moment longer, an offering to finish their conversation, but Bruce remains stony and quiet. Of course he's not itching to talk about it.

Eventually Dick sighs and wanders back over to the table, perches on the edge of it a little ways away from Tim.

He knows time has a way of playing tricks on you, especially in situations like this one. But he also really doubts it should take this long to set one leg bone. Well, there's also the pinkie. And Dick's not sure Jason didn't reinjure a rib or something, in the chaos of getting knocked out and kidnapped, and then knocked flat on the floor by a backdraft. And yeah, there's been a lot.

It's still taking too long.

Alfred and Leslie and Jason disappeared into that room and closed the doors and Dick caught Jason swearing at them once, presumably before they sedated him, and they haven't heard a thing since. It's just dead quiet.

They really need to think of a better phrase for that.

He drums his fingers anxiously against the surface of the table until Tim pins them down beneath his palm.

"Sorry," Dick says, and Tim withdraws his hand.

Another minute or two passes in quiet before Dick pushes himself back off the table to sit in one of the chairs instead. He sends a look across at Bruce, still standing there, unmoved. Like some sort of stone sentinel. Or maybe he just fell asleep standing there.

Eventually, Tim does go to grab something to eat from upstairs. If he's feeling anywhere near as helpless as Dick is, it's just to give himself something to do. Which is why, when he asks if they want him to bring them back anything, he says yes despite not feeling like he even has the energy to eat a bite of anything right now.

Tim's gone about a minute before Bruce says softly, "It couldn't have been because..."

The rest of which is lost on Dick's ears, because Bruce either trails off or says it too quietly to be audible. Dick frowns, asks, "What?"

"When Jason put the gun down back there," Bruce says, clearing his throat. "Do you think he was scared of me? Of...what I might do, if he didn't?"

If he was, it wouldn't, Dick thinks ruefully, have been entirely unfounded. There's a two inch scar on Jason's neck that's a testament to what happens when he just tries to go through with it. If he was afraid of what hurt would come after he'd done it, no one could blame him. Which has to be why Bruce even needs to ask.

And Dick just doesn't have the emotional energy right now to ask Bruce whether Jason should have been afraid of that. Especially not when it sounds like maybe Bruce is afraid of that. He can't will himself to imagine what happens after in that version of events.

"No," Dick says, shaking his head. Then again, a little more sure, "No."

"How do you know?"

Because Jason was never scared of dying again, never scared he might lose or that he might get hurt. And no threat of physical harm could've been enough of a deterrent to stop him from hitting his target.

So what was?

"I don't get the impression Jason's safety is super high on his own priorities."

It's probably not the answer Bruce would like to be true, for a couple different reasons. It's the honest answer though.

Bruce looks away from the medbay doors for what's probably the first time since he stalked away to stand by himself. He gives Dick a look that's hard to read, and then says, "I owe you an apology, Dick."

Dick frowns. "What for?"

"A lot," Bruce says with a wry sort of chuckle. He sighs, says, "I've been so wrapped up in my own guilt, about what happened to Jason. I thought I had to bring him home by myself and that, if I couldn't, I'd have to stop him myself, too. And I thought I just didn't want to burden you with it, but the truth is, I never stopped to consider what a difference having you there would make for him. I let both of you down, and for that, I'm sorry."

From where Dick's sitting, his presence doesn't really seem to have made that much of a difference anyway.

"Thanks," Dick says regardless.

Tim returns with the promised food soon enough, carrying three plates of microwave warmed leftover lasagna. Dick and Bruce resign themselves to sitting back down at the table.

For the longest time, not one of them even touches their forks. Dick's not the only who's not hungry. They just stare at their plates, as if they're going to find any solace or answers on what to do there, but that's frankly a lot to ask of two day old lasagna.

* * *

Eventually, Dick stops trying to keep track of the time. It's not doing much for him anyway.

He's not sure how much longer it is before they get any news, but the plates have long gone cold again. He and Bruce managed to nudge Tim into eating just under half of a serving, but otherwise the food sits abandoned and forgotten. Every now and then Tim will pick up a fork to prod at the food, only to put it back down a second later.

Dick made one more attempt to get the kid to just go upstairs and rest, and all he got was snapped at.

Now Tim's head is propped up on his hand, fighting to stay awake just a little while longer, vaguely reminiscent of a kid bored out of his mind at a school desk. Dick's only moderately more awake himself, so he refrains from commenting.

And then the door swings open, and all three of them are instantly awake and on their feet.

Leslie emerges, surveying the Cave momentarily before she spots them, the door slipping shut once more behind her. She crosses towards them, and they meet her halfway, sending poorly disguised glances over her shoulder as if they'll suddenly develop x-ray vision to see through to the next room.

Of course Dick doesn't mean it to sound as rude as it does when he blurts, "What took so long?"

Leslie, at least, doesn't seem terribly offended.

"Jason's going to be fine," she says first, to a collective sigh of relief. "But, needless to say, his leg took a lot of damage. I had to perform what's called an open reduction surgery. What that means is that the bone in Jason's leg couldn't be set externally. I had to make an incision in the leg in order to realign the broken pieces of bone."

Dick folds his arms in front of him. Peripherally, he's aware of Bruce nodding along to Leslie's explanations.

"So how do they stay that way?" Tim asks with an audible frown.

"They're being held in place right now by surgical pins, a treatment called external fixation," Leslie says with a small nod.

She knows the medical terms don't actually mean anything to Tim. She probably also knows if she gives them to him, he'll do all the research on it until they do mean something, and giving him that option is more for Tim's benefit than anything. He can feel like he's doing something even when there's nothing he can do.

"I can come back to remove them in about six weeks," she continues. "Until then, he's going to need a lot of rest. I recommend keeping the leg elevated as much as possible, especially over the next two days."

Dick cringes internally at the timetable. Jason's not going to be thrilled to find out he can't be on the streets kicking ass for at least six weeks, for one thing. What he'll be less pleased about, Dick's sure, is that it probably means he'll be staying with them in the meantime.

Maybe he'll agree to stay on his own. He's surprised Dick once, it's not impossible he could do it again.

The thought doesn't seem very likely.

"Thanks, doc," Dick says.

"Of course," she says. Then, to Bruce, "I can get back to you with some physical therapy resources for after the leg has healed within the end of the week."

"I would appreciate it."

She looks over her shoulder an instant before adding, "I could also recommend a few therapists. I know confidentiality is important, with what you do, and patient privilege isn't a guarantee of trust. But I know some reliable people, and Jason...Well, it might help, y'know?"

"It's up to him, but I'll pass it along," Bruce says, with a tone that denotes the skepticism they all have on Jason accepting that proposal. Dick can't wait to see how that conversation goes. Bruce adds earnestly, "Thank you, Leslie. For everything."

And he has a feeling he can guess the answer, but Dick asks anyway, "Can we see him?"

"He's resting right now," Leslie says with an apologetic smile. "I gave him a sedative, hopefully he'll sleep through the night--er, morning. Anyway, he may be confused when he wakes up. Right now he's restrained, but Alfred tells me he likes to slip those, so I'd recommend someone keeping an eye on him. We don't want him trying to walk off when he wakes up."

Which, yeah, Dick wouldn't put it past him to do.

"I can keep an eye on him," Dick volunteers.

"You should rest," Bruce says with a small shake of his head. "I can look after Jason."

"You've been awake just as long as me, if not longer," Dick reminds him.

Leslie rolls her eyes before offering, "Maybe we can take shifts?"

Dick's never been a big fan of the way doctors use 'we' instead of 'you.' How are we feeling, they always ask. Somehow Leslie manages to pull it off without sounding quite as patronizing as the rest, though.

And if she were condescending them for their bickering, it's probably at least a little deserved.

"Yeah, okay," Dick concedes.

"Alfred has a list of antibiotics and painkillers for Jason to take," Leslie says, tucking her hands away in her pockets. "But I'd be happy to answer any questions you might have."

The only questions Dick still has aren't the sort a doctor can answer. He tunes Bruce and Leslie's voices out in favor of looking down at his feet, up at the ceiling. Anywhere other than back at the doors.

He's probably supposed to be grateful they're having this conversation. When he considers the number of ways tonight could've gone wrong, the ways they could've very easily lost Jason again, he's probably supposed to be relieved that instead they're just getting lectures on how to properly treat a broken leg.

He doesn't feel grateful or relieved. Or if he does, it's too overshadowed to make much difference.

Maybe it's just because this is the first time since the subway station that anything's been still enough for them to sit and process. But the weight of tonight, of the responsibility he played in things getting to tonight, is far heavier than the relief of what actually happened. If gravity is made of anything, it's surely guilt.

He hears Tim ask if there are any complications they should expect, so they can be prepared. That's a good question. Responsible. Tim shouldn't be the one who has to ask it.

He tries to listen to Leslie's answer.

To the way she talks about how the most dangerous part is already behind them, because Jason's been lucky to avoid any nerve damage. And how she's seen breaks like this one where the dislodged bone can actually sever or partially sever an artery. Dick winces at that one.

Funny enough, talk about how much worse it actually could've been isn't making him feel better.

Bruce offers to walk Leslie out, and Dick's distantly aware of them turning away. After a second he glances down at Tim, says, "How're you holding up?"

"Tired," Tim says after a second. One word can carry an awful lot of honesty. He shrugs and says, "I'll be okay. You?"

"I'm good, yeah," Dick says, nodding like he believes it.

It's what he's supposed say. He's supposed to be good, he's always good. And Tim says he'll be okay, not that he is, and it's been a long night and Tim saved their asses back there. And the kid needs a shoulder to lean on right now, not the other way around. Dick's not helping anyone getting upset right now.

But he can't stop it.

He can't explain it, except that it's like everything finally catching up to him all at once. The truth about last year, the look on Jason's face when he gave the gun up to Dick, the nightmares, Bruce apologizing, Jason calling them his family, the god damn parking garage, the god damn Joker, everything.

It all hits him at once, and it's all he can do to not collapse on the floor right there.

He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, as if he can push the tears back inside before Tim sees them. As if the action of it is any less of a giveaway then just letting the tears roll would be.

"Dick?" Tim asks, uncharacteristically uncertain. He says, "Leslie said he'd be okay."

"I know," Dick says.

"Then what..." Tim starts, trailing off before he can complete the question. Probably, he's not sure what he's supposed to be asking in this situation.

Dick doesn't entirely trust his voice to offer the explanation about how that's not why he's crying. Not really. He doesn't trust his eyes enough to take his hands away either, but he does. Makes one last ditch effort at wiping the tears away, saying, "Sorry, Tim. I'll--I'm just tired, that's all. I'm fine."

Even he knows it's not convincing.

Tim puts a hand on his shoulder, hesitant but reassuraning at once. So much for being strong for the kid. Tim says gently, "You don't have to be fine, y'know."

And Dick's aware of the irony of Tim parroting his own words back to him, but it doesn't make him feel any better about breaking down here. If he could've just held it together a little longer, until he was alone, he could've at least avoided giving everyone else something more to worry about. Their plates are full enough as it is.

"I know," he says. Then, because it's true, "But it's not fair to put this on you. Besides, I'm okay, really."

Tim nods skeptically. "Do you wanna sit down?"

He's pretty doubtful it'll make much difference, but Dick shrugs.

"Sure."

But walking back over to the table and it's chairs seems like too much work, so he drops to the floor instead. Tim follows suit, sitting down just in front of him and looking at him with poorly concealed concern.

He's quiet a second and then he asks, "When's the last time you saw Bruce cry?"

Dick's not sure why he's asking, so he just says the first thing that comes to mind. Which happens to be, "When I got him to watch _Wreck-It Ralph_ last September."

"I'm being serious, Dick."

"So am I," Dick sniffles. Then, "I guess it's been awhile."

He wonders briefly if that's the point of the comparison, before Tim prompts, "Okay, well if it was one of us, would you feel like we were putting some sort of burden on you by getting upset with you around?"

"Of course not," Dick blurts without thinking. Not that he likes the thought of seeing either of them cry, but he hates the idea of them doing it alone even more. Of course he's going to be there for them. And besides, it's not like they can control...Oh, Tim, that sneaky little shit. Dick sees what he's done.

"And it's any different for you...how?" Tim says, arching an eyebrow.

"I get it," Dick says, leaning his elbows on his knees. "When'd you get so smart?"

"I've always been smart," Tim answers flatly. He lets a short pause pass between them before nudging Dick's shin with his foot, saying, "So talk to me."

Dick rests his chin in his hands with a heavy sigh. He doesn't know what Tim wants him to say. What's even left to say, at this point. Tim knows just about everything he does.

After a second, his eyes flicker away, back to the cement they're sitting on. He admits, "I couldn't save him, Tim."

"Jason? He's gonna be okay."

"Yeah, in spite me, not because of me," Dick says. "Jason and Bruce both could've been killed tonight, Jason _would've_ been if that gun wasn't a prop. And there would've been--there _was nothing_ I could've done to stop it."

He doesn't think he's ever felt so powerless in his life than watching his brother put a gun to his own head, begging him not to pull the trigger. And nothing he could think to say even worked.

He should've said more. Should've done more.

The tears pick up again of their own volition, and Tim inches forward a little. Says, "That's not your fault, Dick. You know that."

A voice in his head tells him that's not quite true. It's a little louder than Tim.

"I guess," Dick says.

"Knowing it and believing it are different things though, right?"

Tim sounds a little too understanding of that fact. Dick weighs the wisdom in his voice against all the things Tim's certainly believed were his fault over the years. Things that were certainly beyond his control.

The situations aren't wholly comparable. For one thing, Tim's a kid. Dick should be better by now. He wasn't there for Jason six years ago when he was caught in the Joker's crosshairs, and he certainly never expected to get a second chance. Six years later, and he still couldn't save his brother. It doesn't seem fair to either of them.

"He keeps trusting me, and I keep letting him down," Dick says, a little more to himself than Tim. "Eventually, he's gonna stop giving me the chance."

"Except you didn't."

"What are you talking about?"

"You've hauled his ass out of not one, but two," Tim says, holding up two fingers for emphasis, "Collapsing buildings this month. I think that counts for something."

Dick huffs. "Yeah, but I'd do that for a stranger. That first time, I thought I was doing it for a stranger."

Which isn't to say that knowing it was Jason would've changed his actions. Just that helping him then doesn't excuse slipping up anywhere else.

"You were also the one who managed to slip the cuffs," Tim points out. "I only got there in time because of you."

It's true that Dick should have figured out that stupid thumb trick sooner, he thinks. But Tim might have a point there. Jason never would've given Tim the all clear to create that distraction, and Tim would've done it anyway eventually, but Dick can't say after how long. Can't say Tim wouldn't have gotten himself hurt in the time it would have taken to pick the cuff locks and untie Jason all on his own.

"I mean, I guess," Dick says with a half of a shrug. "Thanks for that, by the way."

"Hey, anytime you guys need me to save your skins, I'm there. I like the bragging rights," Tim says easily. Then, a little more earnest, "Besides, it's the least I can do. You're always there when we need you."

"Doesn't feel like it sometimes."

"Just look at it from my perspective."

"I dunno if I can get that low to the ground."

"Now I know why they named you dick," Tim says, and when he aims to punch Dick in the bicep he lets him with a small laugh. "Don't bully me when I'm trying to comfort you."

"You're right. I shouldn't be so short with you."

Tim groans. "If you're gonna feel guilty about anything, it should be your shitty sense of humor."

"That's the last one, I promise," Dick says, brushing the last of the remaining tears off his cheeks with a half a grin. He pushes himself back onto his feet, offering a hand down to Tim as he adds, "Now get up so I can hug you and we can get you to bed."

He only catches a small eye roll as Tim accepts the hand and lets Dick pull him back up to his feet. Tim hugs him before Dick even gets the chance, a tight squeeze around Dick's ribcage, because that's the kind of hugger Tim is. Sort of all or nothing. And maybe he'll have to stop making those short jokes soon, because Tim's head actually rests just under his chin now.

"Jason's gonna be okay," Tim says, with a degree of finality. "We all are."

"Thanks, Tim."

"Sure," Tim answers dismissively.

Dick musses his hair up as he pulls away from the hug, earning a small chuckle as Tim slaps his hand away. He nods in the direction of the exit and teases, "Seriously, though, get some rest. You're a growing boy, you need to sleep."

"You're relentless," Tim says, shaking his head despite the tired smile. He turns to leave all the same, gets a few feet away before tossing over his shoulder, "Tell B goodnight for me!"

Left alone, Dick finally turns towards the medbay doors. He takes in a breath and holds it a second before letting it out and starting towards them. Alfred must've been near the doors already, because it's only about a second after he knocks that one of them is held open for him.

He exchanges a very short talk with Alfred, in which he explains he volunteered for the first shift of Jason Watch. He's not sure why he feels the need to whisper, Jason's out because of drugs he could probably yell without waking him up. Still, it feels rude somehow. Alfred stresses that Dick call him if anything should come up.

"Anything at all," he makes it clear.

Maybe he feels the need to specify because he knows Dick won't be eager to wake him up. Alfred looks more exhausted than the rest of them. Assisting in a surgery on your pseudo-grandson who only very recently came back from the dead will probably do that to you. Dick, as usual, still has to give him credit for looking as sturdy as he does.

"You got it, Alf," Dick says, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he passes by him.

Alfred shoots one more reluctant look over Dick's shoulder, presumably back at Jason, before saying, "Goodnight, Master Dick."

"Night," Dick says, and Alfred vanishes out of the room.

He turns around as the door closes behind him. All things considered, Jason doesn't look too bad. Well, the surgical pins and the external fixator that Leslie mentioned look a little bit like something pulled from a trap in _Saw_. A connection that's probably only reinforced by the fact they've had to cuff Jason's left wrist to the railing again. Otherwise, though, it doesn't look too bad.

It's almost nice to see Jason so sound asleep, even if he's only so sound asleep because of the drugs they gave him. It's the only time he ever looks peaceful.

Dick sighs and pulls a chair up next to the cot.

He says, still not daring to speak above a whisper, "I got you, little wing."


	28. Walking on Eggshells

Dick realizes he was maybe a little too tired to volunteer for Jason Watch after all only when he wakes up to discover he'd fallen asleep.

His neck is stiff in a way that speaks towards sleeping in a stupid metal foldout chair for at least an hour. Probably longer, he figures, when he connects that the reason he woke up is because Jason did.

There's a slight rattling noise at his side and a groggy, muffled swear.

He moves as if to sit up, which is when he seems to become aware of the sling elevating his leg for the time being which, combined with the handcuffs, makes the task of sitting up a little awkward. Regardless, Dick puts a hand on his bicep to steady him, which is when he seems to become aware of Dick even sitting there at all.

He jumps a little, and Dick sort of feels bad for scaring him, but then Jason looks over at him and says, faintly relieved, "Dick?"

"Yeah?"

"Where 'm I?"

"The Batcave," Dick supplies with a small nod.

He'll blame Jason not recognizing his surroundings on the same reason his words are so slurred, which is that whatever Leslie gave him obviously hasn't worn off yet. Dick's pretty sure any questions he happens to answer right now, he'll be answering again in the future.

Jason mirrors Dick's nod before his eyes flicker down to the cuff on his wrist and he asks, "'m I arrested or somethin'?"

Dick will attribute that tired sort of resignation in the words to the drugs too. He shakes his head, says, "No. No, we just didn't want you trying to walk away when you woke up."

"I'm not in trouble?"

"No," Dick says, as earnest as he can. "Doc just said you might be confused. We didn't want you to hurt yourself."

"Doc?"

"Leslie."

"Oh."

Normally Jason might be offended by the mere implication he could even get confused. At the moment, he shrugs like he accepts that answer as reasonable. He moves right on to the next topic that comes to mind. Blinks like he's just remembered something important before looking for the door, and then back to Dick.

"B and the kid?" he says.

Which isn't a full question, but Dick thinks he knows what Jason's asking, so he answers, "They're fine. They're upstairs."

"K," Jason says, eyes closing easily as he settles back against the pillows.

An instant later he's asleep again.

Dick manages to stay awake after that until Bruce comes down to take over the next shift. He's not sure if any conversation they have is so brief out of simple exhaustion on both their parts or because Bruce, too, is afraid speaking too loud might wake Jason from the first peaceful sleep he's had in months.

Bruce waves at him from the doorway, and Dick's more than willing to abandon that metal chair. He's less willing to leave his post, if he's being honest. He wants to be there when Jason wakes up for real, feels like he owes him that much.

He also has to admit he's not keeping a very good watch if he's falling asleep in the chair anyway. Besides, Jason will be just fine in Bruce's hands, at least for a few short hours.

With a small sigh, he starts for the door. Bruce meets him halfway, asks in a hushed tone, "How is he?"

"Uh, woke up once, asked some questions, then right back to sleep," Dick says with a small shrug.

Bruce nods, like that's about the answer he was expecting. Says, "Okay. Go get some rest, kiddo."

He offers a reassuring pat on Dick's shoulder before slipping past him to take the chair. With a small sigh, Dick makes his way out from the room, and from there out of the Cave.

On his way up to his old room, he catches sight of the sun just beginning to rise through a window. It's a new day.

* * *

Even after the events of last night, Dick's old room at the manor holds up as the safe haven he's come to believe it to be. He sleeps for the better part of twelve hours, without nightmares or waking up in the middle of the night. He swings his feet over the edge of the bed and onto the floor, and the sun is well in the sky when he glances outside.

He rakes a hand through his hair and pads downstairs in his pajamas.

He doesn't remember what the last thing he ate actually was, and food should probably be one of the first things on his mind, when his mind starts to wake up. Naturally what leads him to the kitchen isn't food, but instead the muffled voices he catches from the hallway.

From the doorway he spots Alfred and Bruce, sitting at the island in the middle of the kitchen, a pot of coffee on the counter between them. He couldn't hear them well enough to know what they're talking about, but he could probably hazard a guess. He feels a little bad for interrupting. One on one talks with Alfred can be such a relief.

Neither of them seem bothered to see him poke his head through the door, though. In fact, Bruce pats the empty stool at his side and says, "Coffee's fresh."

The clock broadcasts that it's five in the afternoon, but of course the coffee's fresh.

He shrugs and makes his way over to the island, accepting the mug that Alfred offers him. If Bruce is up here having coffee it must mean, "Is Jason awake?"

"Master Tim is keeping him company, for the moment," Alfred says with a small nod.

"Uh oh," Dick says, only partially joking. He nudges Bruce with his elbow and asks, "How's he doing? Have you talked to him?"

"Alfred was there when he woke up, not me."

If the way Bruce grumbles this into his coffee cup is any indication, there was some slight disagreement around the subject. Which is confirmed when Alfred answers, like he's said it a million times because probably he has, "You may not wish to believe it, sir, but you need sleep just as much as the next human."

"It was probably for the better," Bruce says with a resigned sigh.

"What d'you mean?"

Dick could swear he catches Alfred rolling his eyes. He says, "Your father has managed to convince himself that your brother would rather not be graced with his presence."

"He's basically trapped here for six weeks, Alfred," Bruce answers defensively. "I don't wanna make it any harder than it has to be."

It's gonna be a nightmare, Dick's pretty sure. But he also doubts Bruce staying away will do much to assuage any of Jason's discomfort with the situation. Briefly, Dick wonders if Bruce still thinks Jason's afraid of him.

Jason, whose first thought when he woke up was that he was somehow under arrest. And yeah, Dick knows he was on drugs and waking up with handcuffs makes it a reasonable assumption. Still, he doesn't like how easy it is for Jason to believe they would turn on him. Least of all after last night.

With that in mind, Dick says, "Just talk to him, B."

"I will," Bruce says, shoulders slumping.

Dick's well aware of the fact that he doesn't say when he will. The fact he makes no move to get up indicates he won't be following through on that immediately.

But as far as the two of them communicating goes, Dick will just have to accept whatever win he can get.

"He may, however, appreciate being rescued from Master Tim, if you're so inclined," Alfred tells Dick.

"That," he says, draining about half his cup of coffee in one quick gulp, "I can do."

With one final appreciative nod towards Alfred, Dick abandons Bruce to his brooding and makes his way down to the Batcave.

He's not sure what he's expecting from Tim and Jason alone in a room together, but he figures it's a good sign when he gets down there and doesn't immediately hear furious shouting. He does hear conversation, though, which would mean the need for keeping an eye on Jason to stop him from hurting himself in drug-addled confusion is passed already.

Which means either Alfred put Tim on him because Jason's maybe still a flight risk or, and this seems less likely, Tim's down here by choice.

Dick takes a second to eavesdrop once he's in range, and he feels a hint of a frown pulling at his face. It sounds like they're talking about...homework? Jason's voice is saying something along the lines of, "That's a motif, not a theme, dumbass."

To which Tim answers, with all of his sharp wit, "You're the dumbass, dumbass."

He raps his knuckles lightly against the doorframe, and both of them look up like they've been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Speaking of hands, Jason's have already been uncuffed, and are presently holding a book that looks suspiciously like Tim's school copy of _The Crucible._

Dick stifles a grin as he says, "Sorry to interrupt, didn't know class was in session."

Tim flips him off.

"Alfred left him here while he's cooking, he said something about babysitting," Jason says, shooting a disdainful look back at Tim before adding, "I'm not sure who he thinks is babysitting who, exactly."

He'll refrain from commenting on that one. Instead he nods towards the book and says, "So whose idea was Book Club?"

"He said he was bored," Tim says, a tad defensively.

And of course Tim's solution has nothing to do with the class he's failing, and already knowing Jason happens to be a whiz at that particular subject. Whatever, Dick thinks. He can't judge the kid too heavily, from the looks of it, it's been working as a pretty decent distraction for the both of them. He doesn't know how long Tim's been down here, and they're talking to each other. By choice.

They're also calling each other dumbasses, but Dick's going to look past that for now.

"To death, almost," Jason agrees with a half grin. "Wouldn't that be ironic?"

Dick's gonna go ahead and ignore that one. He indicates the book and asks, "What's the verdict, Professor Todd? Can our little Timothy pass English?"

"Not a chance in hell," Jason says flatly.

Tim groans, slumping dramatically lower in the chair. He grumbles, "I asked for _constructive_ criticism, Todd. This is not constructive."

"Constructive isn't his strong suit," Dick says, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. "Criticism, on the other hand..."

This time Jason flips him off.

Then he turns back to Tim and says, "Listen, Timberly--"

"I told you not to call me that."

"--you understand the material, you just need to figure out how it goes together. When you can give me a thesis, you'll be on the right track," Jason says, as if uninterrupted.

"I gave you a thesis," Tim says pointedly.

"No offense, but your thesis made me wish I stayed dead."

Dick winces. "Please stop making jokes about that."

Frankly, he doesn't think he'll ever be comfortable with those jokes, especially when Jason makes them so offhand like that. And he recognizes it's not his place to tell Jason how to cope, and after last night is a little less fresh in their minds, he can make all the jokes he wants. Dick doesn't have to like them.

But the timing today isn't ideal. Jason mentions his death and all Dick can think about is his brother with a gun to his head. That faint click of a trigger pulling back.

Hearing about what had happened the first time six years ago from Alfred and Bruce in the middle of the sitting room, that initial wave of guilt because he wasn't there. And then he was there and he still couldn't stop it.

Obviously they were going to have to address it eventually, but it's not how Dick was hoping to start off his day.

Jason looks momentarily aggravated, but the anger quickly deflates with a tired sigh. He looks away and just says, "Yeah, sure thing, birdbrain."

Tim clears his throat awkwardly, saying, "I can go, if you guys wanted to talk or...whatever."

Dick starts to say that it's fine, mostly because he's anticipating Jason not really wanting to talk right now. Or ever. Talking's not really his style. He says, "No, it's fine."

"Yeah," Jason's voice says over his. And the skepticism must show on Dick's face, because he adds, "The kid can stay, I don't really give a shit, but I do need to talk to you."

He's not sure if that's as ominous as it sounds or if he's reading into it. If he is, Tim's reading into it, too. The legs of the chair scrape back against the tile floor as he gets up.

"I needed a snack anyway," Tim says dismissively. He claps Dick on the chest as he walks past him, adding, "Babysitting duty's all yours, buddy."

Jason calls indignantly after him, "I was babysitting _you_ , Timberly! You were not babysitting me!"

In the distance, Dick hears Tim yelling back, "It's not short for Timberly!"

After Tim's footsteps retreat out of hearing range Dick turns his attention back to Jason. He'll say his reason for loitering in the doorway is because of a simple desire not to spend any more time in that uncomfortable chair than he already has. No other reasons.

He asks, "So what's up?"

"You can relax," Jason says. Because Dick's either worse at hiding his nerves than he thought, or Jason's still better at reading him than he gives him credit for. "I just had a quick question. Bruce hasn't been around and Alfred was evasive, and I figure, you've never had a problem being honest with me anyway. D'you mind?"

He's not sure, seeing as he's not sure what Jason wants to ask. What Jason could be asking that he would consider posing the question to Bruce, or that Alfred would be evasive over.

"Yeah, shoot," Dick says.

And he winces internally at the wording until he remembers he's not walking on eggshells with Jason anymore. Or, he's not supposed to be, anyway.

Jason doesn't seem to notice. He indicates his elevated leg with a small nod, asking, "Doc give you a timetable on when I can walk on that again?"

Now he gets it.

If Alfred was evasive, it was probably because he didn't want to tell Jason how long he's stuck at the manor, not right after he'd woken up. Dick can't say he blames him.

But he can also see how Jason might leap to a different conclusion. That device holding all of Leslie's surgical pins in place, holding all the pieces of Jason's bone in place, might not just look scary to Dick.

He's quick to nod back and say, "It's gonna heal fine. Leslie'll come back to take the pins out, you'll be kicking my ass in no time."

"Awesome," Jason says, and a degree of tension drops visibly from his shoulders. Never one to allow himself to celebrate good news for too long, he almost immediately moves on to asking, "So when can I go?"

Dick blinks at him. "Go where?"

He was expecting Jason to want to leave, sure. But he was sort of expecting it to be a little longer than a couple of hours before he asked. There's a whole list of antibiotics and painkillers set aside for him, he had emergency fucking surgery last night. Dick thinks he can be forgiven for not expecting this question now.

"I've got a couple different safehouses that should work," Jason says, a little too nonchalant. "No stairs or nothing. You guys can just drop me off, whenever--"

"Doc says you're non weight bearing for at least the next two weeks," Dick tells him.

Which sounds bad, but it's really as simple as Jason just not putting any weight on that particular leg. Dick doesn't know why he was thinking that would be a deterrent for leaving.

"Two weeks?" Jason asks, raising his eyebrows.

He seems as daunted by the answer as if Dick had told him two years.

"At least."

He figures he should wait to point out that it's six weeks until the pins can be removed. And that from there, he'll have to finish whatever physical therapy Leslie's prescribing before he can actually run around Red Hood-ing again.

Jason huffs. Dick's not sure which of them Jason's trying to convince when he says, "I can do two weeks."

He should just take the victory.

Against better judgment, Dick says, "You could always just stick around, y'know."

"Nothing's changed, Dick," Jason says, and it might be matter of fact if it wasn't so weary. "Nothing's _going_ to change. Not me, certainly not Bruce. It'll be easier on everyone if I just go. Unless you're saying I can't."

That last part is delivered like the challenge it no doubt is. Like maybe he's waiting for Dick to tell him that no, he can't leave after all. As if Dick's about to say he's a danger to himself and society, Batman knows best, he'll be staying in this Cave indefinitely, where he can't cause any more damage.

Because they haven't arrested him yet, but Jason doesn't want to wait around for Bruce to change his mind.

It's Dick's own mistake if he was expecting things between Jason and Bruce to be any different after one measly hug. As if years of one sided resentment and two sided judgment and all that crap could be resolved in the span or maybe three or four minutes. As if those two will ever figure out that neither of them hate each other. In fact, it's precisely the opposite.

"Jason, I don't want you to go anywhere, and neither does Bruce."

"All evidence to the contrary."

"He was down here for hours," Dick says, finally stepping further into the room. "At your side, in case you woke up and needed someone there."

"That's funny, I haven't seen him. Guess I'm just easier to care about when I'm unconscious. Or dead," Jason says bitterly. "That's about what I have to do to get his attention, right? That, or have a gun in my hands."

"That's not--"

"I'm a big boy, Dickie, I don't need Bruce to love me. I don't even need him to like me. I'm okay with that, why aren't you?"

"Because it's not true."

None of it is. Not the part about Bruce not caring, and least of all the past about Jason being okay with thinking he doesn't.

He keeps saying he's given up on family, but all his actions prove otherwise. And as skilled as Jason is with words and language, it's always been true for him that actions are louder than words.

Jason's fiercely independent and, not only that, he's already been betrayed by more than his fair share of important people in his life. Which is why he thinks he doesn't need someone to care. Which is also why he so desperately needs for someone to care. And maybe he'll get by if it's not Bruce, but damn does he still want it to be, even if he doesn't want to admit it.

He apparently doesn't want to argue the subject right now. Instead he asks irritably, "Can I leave or not?"

"No," Dick blurts. Jason eyes him sharply, and he clarifies, "Not until Leslie OK's it."

He'll apologize to Leslie for throwing her under the bus later.

Jason huffs, flipping to a random page in the book Tim left behind and pretending to read it. It's less because he has any interest in rereading it, Dick's sure, and more because he's hoping it'll end this conversation if he looks distracted.

The silence hangs oppressively in the air for a minute before Dick relents and crosses the room to drop back into the chair. Jason pretends not to notice him until he says, "Is Bruce the only reason you wanna leave?"

"Do I need another one?" Jason asks without looking up.

It's the sort of non-answer that makes Dick believe there are other reasons. For all he knows, it's just because Jason doesn't like the carpet in the guest room he'll be staying in when he can leave medbay.

If only their problems were as simple as issues with interior décor.

He's really got to get Bruce and Jason to have a conversation of their own. But between now and then, there's just one thing he needs to clear up. So he can know for sure.

His gaze flickers unwillingly to the scar on Jason's neck, and he says, "B's worried you're scared of him."

Jason snorts derisively. Which is enough of an answer to confirm that no, Jason's not afraid of Bruce. Not in that regard, at least.

Dick's about to accept that as his whole answer, too. He doesn't seem like he's in a particularly chatty mood at the moment, and he's probably tired, and Dick should really stop pushing him.

But Jason drums his fingers against the cover of the book for a second, and then puts it down suddenly, turning to face Dick. There's a faint determination set into his features when he asks, "Truth?"

It takes Dick a second to figure out what Jason's asking, and when he does, he's not sure he wants it. Jason doesn't usually hesitate to tell the truth, regardless of if someone wants it.

"Truth," Dick says with a nod.

"Bruce," Jason says deliberately, "Isn't the one I'm scared of."

It raises more questions than it answers.

Dick's not sure if he's allowed to ask who Jason's referring to or if he's just supposed to decipher that riddle himself. He's opening his mouth to ask anyway when he hears the knock at the door.

Normally he's thankful for Alfred's convenient timing. This time, he'll admit he's just a little annoyed to turn around and see Alfred hovering in the doorway. Alfred's gaze bounces between them for an instant, and Dick doesn't get the impression he overhead much of anything, but he's probably aware he's interrupting something nonetheless.

"My apologies," he says thoughtfully. "I merely wished to inform you that dinner, or breakfast in your case Master Dick, will be ready shortly."

"Thanks, Alf," Dick says. He glances back at Jason, adds, "I can come eat down here, if you want company."

"It's fine, go upstairs."

"It's not a problem," Dick starts.

"Really, go upstairs," Jason says, voice tinged with a less than subtle aggravation.

Whether that aggravation is more for Dick or himself, at the moment, isn't entirely clear. Maybe he regrets offering the truth as an option to begin with.

Dick sighs and gets back to his feet. He's reluctant to just drop this conversation, despite the stony determination it had felt oddly vulnerable when Jason asked if he wanted the truth and he's not sure he should leave. But he sends one more look over his shoulder before leaving, and Jason's already moved on to thumbing through the pages of the book again.

He's doing his best to make it clear he wants to be alone.

"I'll bring you that book you've been reading from my apartment later, okay?" Dick offers, following Alfred out the door before Jason has a chance to reject him.


	29. Paper Villains

True to his word, Dick makes his way back to his apartment the next day to pick that book up for Jason.

It's almost weird, actually, stepping into an empty apartment now. He sort of got accustomed to someone being around. Not in a good way, necessarily, seeing as his first instinct is to make sure the temporary house guest isn't bleeding on his carpet again. Still, the quiet is a little unexpected.

The book, of course, hasn't moved from where it was abandoned on the coffee table.

There's not much else Dick needs from his place, even planning on sticking around the manor as he does. Alfred and Bruce always have spare clothes and things lying around for him, he doesn't need to grab pajamas or anything. Just the book, and then he switches all the lights off. They were left on when he got there, which means he's had them on for a few days now, which is sort of a waste of electricity.

Right now the idea is to head back to the manor and stick around until Jason can leave. He's not sure whether Jason's actually going to appreciate his presence or not. He also knows that no one at the manor is remotely a threat, despite what Jason might or might not believe.

Still, it feels almost like a betrayal to just leave him there on his own. Even if he's not, technically, on his own.

He makes it back to the manor just as the rain's lightening to a drizzle. Finds Alfred dusting in the sitting room, and when he asks Alfred tells him Tim's at school and Bruce is--and Dick gets the impression there's more to this story--attending a business meeting he couldn't get out of.

"Is Jason awake, d'you know?" Dick asks.

"I'd predict so, yes," Alfred says with a small, disapproving shake of his head. "The strongest medication I've been able to persuade him to accept for the pain is a tablet of Ibuprofen."

"Typical."

Typical or not, Dick's not thrilled to hear it.

The Red Hood's adamant refusal or any pain medication always made sense to him as a survival tactic. Anything that numbs pain also, to some degree, numbs awareness of your surroundings. Numbs the mind. And it's dangerous to be in enemy territory without full cognizance, especially with preexisting injuries, like a broken leg.

Logically, it made sense. It was stupid and paranoid--because honestly, why would Dick have pulled him out of that garage at all if he was really an enemy--but ultimately, it made sense.

It also makes sense that his behavior hasn't changed since Dick learned the truth or even since Jason actually declared them his family. The Red Hood has always been Jason, and Jason's always known whose company he was in.

Dick definitely views things a little differently now, though. He's a lot less comfortable with his, or Alfred's or Bruce's or Tim's, company being perceived as enemy territory.

But he's not exactly surprised.

Alfred hums but refrains from commenting. Instead he nods towards the paperback in Dick's hands and prompts, "Is that for him?"

"Uh, yeah," Dick says, holding the cover up for Alfred to get a better look. "He picked it up off my nightstand, I thought he might wanna finish it."

"I wasn't aware you were a fan of Beckett's."

"I bought it 'cause I liked the cover," Dick admits. "Is Jason?"

"He wasn't, the first time he read that one," Alfred says, indicating the book with a fond smile. Dick guesses that if Jason's read the book before, it was at Alfred's suggestion. Turning back to the dusting, Alfred adds without a hint of the smile, "I imagine he has rather a different perspective on a lot of things now."

There's a pause as he glances down at the paperback and then back up at Alfred, straightening the frame of a photo on the wall.

It's a family photo they took for greeting cards, from the last holiday season with Jason around. The one where Jason managed to talk Bruce into wearing the cheesy reindeer antlers.

Dick gets the feeling Alfred's comment has less to do with books than it sounds.

But of course Jason has different perspectives now, of course he's changed. Alfred's the one who helped Dick make his peace with that in the first place.

"Well it's like you said," Dick starts, intending to be reassuring. He flounders when he realizes he can't remember what Alfred said in as many words, and offers less than eloquently, "He's...a tea pot."

Okay, Dick will be the first to admit that sage wisdom really isn't his strong suit. But at the very least it earns a soft chuckle.

"I accept the difference," Alfred says, stepping back from the wall with his gaze still on the photograph. "I only wish I could've prevented it coming about this way."

Dick feels like sort of a jerk for not thinking to check in on Alfred sooner, actually. All things considered, Alfred's the most well-adjusted person Dick knows. Even still, it helps to talk about it.

It's not like Alfred subjecting himself to the same pointless guilt that Bruce does, at least. He just wishes things could have been different. And who can blame him?

"I know," Dick says in understanding.

"Nothing to be done about it now, I suppose," Alfred says, turning away from the photograph with a curt nod.

Which isn't quite true, Dick thinks.

They can't change what happened in the past, no. But a few short weeks ago Jason thought they just genuinely didn't give a single shit about him. Now he can at least concede that they really care.

Granted, so far only with a gun to his head. And care is a lot less accurate a word than love. It's not a lot of progress, but it's big nonetheless.

He knows Alfred doesn't plan on giving up on Jason, because he knows Alfred could never give up on any of them. So he won't try to explain the significance of what progress they've made.

But he thinks back to Jason's insistence that Bruce wants nothing to do with him, that Dick only cares because he thinks he's broken. And he figures, even if Jason will never say it out loud, something like Alfred's easy acceptance would mean the world to him.

"For what it's worth," Dick says lightly. "I think you just being you has been really important to him."

Alfred smiles, something sincere. Then he moves on, "I think you had best be delivering that book now. Master Jason will be getting bored soon."

"And Jason and boredom..."

"A dangerous combination, yes."

Dick shoots one last glance himself back at the old holiday photo, then turns and makes his way back out of the sitting room. He can hear Alfred humming while he dusts when he makes it out to the hallway, and he figures something of their conversation helped at least.

Now if only he could figure out how to talk to Jason.

He's barely stepped foot in the Batcave when his ears pick up a soft _thunk_ coming from the direction of the medbay.

With a sigh he glances across, where one of the doors has been left hanging open. He can just make out Jason, sitting up against a stack of pillows and staring across at the wall, looking torn between boredom and irritation.

Nothing particularly new.

He's just brought an arm up as if to throw something when Dick makes it to the doorway. He knocks against the frame, mostly to be polite.

"Hiya Dickie," Jason says distractedly, barely glancing over at him as he flicks his wrist out, throwing what appears to be a shuriken.

It's more out of instinct than any belief that Jason's throwing sharp weapons at him that Dick flinches. Then he glances over at the wall beside him, spotting the shuriken.

It's lodged in the forehead of a crudely drawn marker image of what's either the Joker or Beetlejuice. The target is actually three different pieces of printer paper, a head, body, and legs. Although most of Jason's aim seems to be fixed on the head.

Accompanying the shuriken is a single batarang, a pencil, a pair of scissors, and what appears to be one of the good silver butter knives.

Alfred was right, Jason's getting bored.

"Where the hell did you get all this?"

"Promised the Replacement I'd teach him to dislocate his thumbs if he brought me something to do," Jason answers, as if that's a normal sentence. Also as if he isn't saying it while launching a scalpel into Joker-Beetlejuice's heart.

Dick and Tim are so having a conversation later.

For his own safety, Dick crosses to the other side of the room, away from the target wall. Says, "Was target practice your idea or his?"

"Mine." Jason holds a cream cheese spreader up to the light to inspect it, then adds, "I think he just grabbed random shit."

Dick frowns.

He's still trying to get a clear read on what's going on in Jason's head. His attitude almost seems consistent with someone who's in a good mood. Which doesn't line up, in part because it's Jason, in part because Alfred said he's been refusing pain meds. And, more than that, because he's hurling projectiles across the room with extreme force.

Where the batarang and the butter knife are concerned, a good half of them are buried within the wall. It reads more as pissed off and vaguely homicidal than good mood, to be frank.

"You two seem to be getting along," Dick comments.

"I wouldn't go that far," Jason says, passing the cream cheese spreader back and forth between his hands.

Judging the weight, Dick imagines. Something like that isn't balanced for throwing. It shows an impressive amount of skill for him to have landed the butter knife, and if he makes it with a damn cream cheese spreader Dick's rioting.

"I brought you this," Dick says, holding the book out.

"Thanks."

He catches the end of the cream cheese spreader before Jason can throw it. And Jason seems much more like himself when he finally looks over at Dick for the express purpose of glaring at him.

He raises his eyebrows, as if prompting Dick to either speak or let go so he can get back to attacking paper villains.

"Can we talk?"

"There's nothing to talk about," Jason says, a little too insistently for someone who actually believes that.

"No," Dick says. "You're just wreaking havoc on the wall for fun, sure."

Jason rolls his eyes and lets Dick have the cream cheese spreader, releasing his grip in favor of picking through the other options in the pile of pointy objects at his side.

Dick lets the silence sit in the air between them for a minute, broken only by the pencil falling from the wall and dropping instead to the floor. With a slight huff, Jason holds another batarang up, turning to eye the target once more.

"Bruce came by this morning," he says, and it might sound casual if not for the underlying ice in his voice. He flings the batarang with a little too much force as he adds, "Said he was _proud_ of me."

This, Jason says like it's a bad thing. An insult, even.

Dick's gaze tracks towards the target on the wall and he thinks he can figure out a little bit of how that conversation must have gone.

He wonders if it's a coincidence that this second batarang managed to lodge itself in the side of the paper target's neck.

"And that's...bad?"

"It's bullshit."

"You don't believe him?"

"Sure I do," Jason says.

And Dick can't totally tell if that's sarcasm or if Bruce honestly being proud of him is the issue.

"And," he repeats with a frown. "That's bad?"

His only answer is a resounding _thunk_ as an antique letter opener buries itself in the wall.

Jason must either be getting distracted or running out of target space for the head, because it lands a little to the left of the would-be Joker's ear. Sort of like the bullets landing in a dirty old basement floor instead of a human skull.

In realizing the parallel, Dick thinks he realizes what Jason's mad about. Or part of it anyway.

For once, it's not actually about Bruce.

Sure, he either thinks Bruce is a liar or is actively pissed about Bruce having the audacity to say he's proud of him. But that's not what has him trying to slaughter an innocent wall. It's that Jason's not proud of himself.

He regrets not taking the shot.

"Jason," Dick says tentatively. "You did the right thing."

"What I did wasn't right, it was selfish," Jason says bitterly as he chucks what's finally an actual throwing knife across the room. Perfect aim.

Now Dick's a little less sure he and Jason are talking about the same thing. He echoes, "Selfish?"

Jason's gaze flits momentarily over to him and then it's back on the wall.

"Forget it," he says, and it's not a suggestion. Dick barely opens his mouth to reply before Jason snarls, "I said forget it. Go back upstairs, I don't want you here."

Dick drops into the foldout chair at the bedside. Which is the exact opposite of going back upstairs, but that's kind of the point.

"Come on, Jay," he says. "You can talk to me."

"No, Dick. I can't."

"You can, you just don't want to."

"Okay, so I don't want to," Jason corrects, undeterred. "But of course, sit down. What I want doesn't actually matter. Never has."

"That's not--"

"If you say it's not true I'm stabbing you."

Dick arches an eyebrow. Indicates what's left of the pile at Jason's side and asks, "With the cream cheese spreader or the number two pencil?"

"You think you're so funny, don't you," Jason grumbles, slumping back against the pillows with an aggravated sigh. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

There's a weary quality to the question that has Dick asking, "Is that what you want me to do?"

"I told you already, it doesn't matter what I want," Jason says, as if it's just that simple.

"You wanted to kill him, right?" Dick says, eyeing the target on the wall. "That's what this is about?"

"Yeah, no shit I want to kill him."

"So why didn't you?"

It's not an accusation. Maybe Jason thinks it is. Maybe Jason knows it isn't but believes it should be. Either way his glare is sharper than anything he could possibly throw.

"Bruce asked the same question," Jason says, almost conversationally.

"Yeah? What'd you tell him?"

"That it was for the same reason I didn't shoot either of you," Jason answers flatly. "It's what the bastard wanted."

"That's," Dick says, frowning at the easy way Jason just says that, "Not true, right?"

Jason looks away. And Dick's not sure whether Jason wants to laugh or cry when he says, "No. I think he bought it, though."

It's in this moment that Dick realizes his possible error in encouraging Bruce and Jason to talk to each other. He pinches the bridge of his nose and just manages to hold back the tired sigh.

Shaking his head, Dick asks, "Why would you tell him that, Jason?"

"He was being an ass."

"You can't keep pushing people away and then getting upset when they leave."

"There's nothing to push, Dick. He doesn't get to act like everything's magically fine because I wouldn't shoot him," Jason says. Whether the him he's referring to is Joker or Bruce, Dick can't tell. He thinks the effect is the same either way. "And he doesn't get to say he's fucking proud of me for being a god damn coward."

Which is, Dick's sure, completely and utterly ridiculous.

A lot of things can be said about Jason Todd, about who he was or who he is. But never has he been, nor ever will he be, a coward. He might not be as fearless as Dick used to believe, but he's got to be the bravest person Dick knows.

He crawled his way back from the grave and he doesn't flinch away from the hurt he's endured, he fights tooth and nail every day to make sure no other children endure it.

Dick might not approve of his methods, but if that's not brave he doesn't know what is.

"Jason, you're not a coward," Dick says. Less because he expects it to be that simple, more because it needs to be said.

"Fuck off," comes Jason's reply as he sits up and flings a screwdriver into the wall.

Reassuring never was very effective where Jason was concerned. Dick tries a different route. Asks, "Why would you even think that?"

"I had the perfect shot and I should have taken it, consequences be damned," Jason says. "But I didn't. What would you call that, birdbrain?"

The question is punctuated by a cream cheese spreader lodging itself in the Joker's throat. Jason makes the shot. Because of course he does.

Dick's not sure what consequences Jason's referring to, exactly. He's never seemed too concerned about the idea that the Red Hood might go to prison. He says he's not scared of Bruce.

He is scared, Dick thinks, of the Joker. But a bullet to the brain goes a long way to remedy a fear like that.

It's a question he should probably keep to himself, but Dick asks, "What is it you're afraid of, Jay?"

"Nothing."

"You can't be a coward and fearless at the same time."

"Very well, then I contradict myself," Jason quotes flatly. "I am large, I contain multitudes."

It's a great sentiment, brought up for the sole purpose of avoiding actually answering the question.

"Walt Disney," Dick declares.

"Whitman," Jason says, smacking him in the arm.

"Well I'm pretty sure Whitman also said, 'You can tell your brother anything, Jason, he's a great listener."

"He didn't."

"I'm paraphrasing."

It's only for a fraction of a second, and it's very small, but an almost smile flickers across Jason's face. Then he shakes his head and launches the number two pencil at the wall.

The eraser end hits the target's shoulder and then the pencil bounces off and to the floor. It takes with it the paper holding the drawing of the feet which, not pinned there by anything sharp, slowly drifts down to the ground.

He reaches a hand to his side to throw something else, finds he's out of projectiles, and puffs out an aggravated sigh.

Since it becomes increasingly clear Jason's not about to answer, Dick hazards a guess. At least if he's wrong he knows Jason will get pissed and correct him, so he'll get something of an answer either way.

"Is it...You said you weren't afraid of Bruce, did you mean you are afraid of Batman?"

Obviously Dick knows they're the same person. But they're not, always, the same person.

Jason scoffs. "You're kidding, right?"

"Well you could just tell me if you don't like my guessing," Dick says, only sounding slightly as annoyed as he feels. It's not like he was even asking the question before Jason offered him the answer. With a sigh he says, "You wanted to tell me yesterday."

"Forget about yesterday," Jason says with a frustrated groan.

"I can't."

"You can, you just don't want to," Jason parrots bitterly. He scrubs a hand over his face, saying, "I don't know what I was thinking yesterday. I was tired, okay? And angry, and tired of being angry, and you were there and I thought I--Look, just leave it alone."

As if he can.

Yesterday Jason thought he could talk to him. As far as knows, nothing's changed since then except Jason getting in his own head. Maybe he's convinced himself Dick won't get it. Maybe he's worried he will. Dick could go on and on about the maybes, but the truth is, he'll never know what Jason's thinking, not fully. He lost that ability years ago. He wants it back.

"I know historically I haven't been the most understanding," Dick says carefully. "With the whole Red Hood business and everything. But I'm trying, I want you to be able to talk to me."

"What makes you think I want to?"

Dick just raises his eyebrows at him.

Jason shows him his middle finger. Puts his hand about two inches from Dick's face just to make sure he gets the point. It's not very effective, in part because it's wildly immature, and in part because his pinkie sticks up with it, stuck that way by an aluminum splint.

A broken pinkie finger is minimal compared to everything else Jason's been through. That's not the comforting thought it's supposed to be. It's just one more thing on the pile of things Dick should've protected his little brother from. He can't change the past, but he really, really ought to stop repeating it.

He pushes Jason's hand out of his face to little resistance. Says, "I'm not going anywhere, Jason."

"I know. That's my problem."

"You asked if I wanted the truth," Dick says. "Whatever it is, I can handle it, because you shouldn't have to alone. So tell me."

"No," Jason says simply.

"Dammit, Jason, what are you so afraid of? You think you're gonna hurt one of us if you stick around? Because nothing you can do is gonna compare to losing you. You're scared we might lock you up? You're scared of the Joker? What is it?"

"I am _not_ afraid of that fucking clown," Jason growls, and when he looks at him like that, Dick's faintly relieved all the sharp objects are lodged in the wall on the other side of the room.

He notices Jason doesn't bother denying any of the other suggestions, though. Not that fiercely, and not at all. Which could mean they're true or it could mean they're just not offensive enough to acknowledge. Either way it's not an answer.

"Just tell me the truth," he demands.

"You," Jason all but shouts.

Dick waits for a statement to follow, an insult maybe. But a second or two pass by and he realizes that one word is the whole statement. That's the answer to the question.

He wishes he hadn't yelled now. Draws his hand back to his side on instinct and asks, "Me?"

He's not sure if it's the body language or some obvious guilt on his face that Jason picks up on, but Jason rolls his eyes and says, "Not like that, birdbrain. We both know I'd kick your ass in a fight."

"Then what..." Dick trails off, not totally sure what he's supposed to say right now.

"You asked why I didn't kill the Joker," Jason says, like that explains anything.

Hell, maybe it explains everything, he wouldn't know. He hasn't known what Jason's been thinking since the kid pushed him out of the way of that ceiling collapse. Why should that change now?

"It was for me?" he asks in dumb disbelief. Jason looks away again, which is the same as confirmation in his book. Dick's not sure if he's supposed to ask, but he says, "Why?"

"Why?" Jason repeats with a wry chuckle. Alright, maybe Dick wasn't supposed to ask. Jason starts to answer, reconsiders, and falls just south of vindictive when he finally snaps, "You were never there for me. Before I died, you were never there for me."

This conversation is almost definitely going to give Dick whiplash.

The reply seems more than a little at odds with what Jason was just saying, if it's true he didn't take the shot because Dick asked him not to. Still, he's not going to argue with it. There is, at least, some semblance of truth there.

He wasn't the best brother when Jason was around. Granted, it was largely because he wasn't on the best terms with Bruce at the time. He always loved Jason, but yeah, they butted heads a lot. Dick was too focused on the Titans and whatever else he had going on to really think about some snot nosed little brother.

It's not like they never had their moments, but Dick will admit that he didn't realize how important Jason was until he was gone. He spent years regretting not being around more when he had the chance.

"I know," he concedes.

Jason frowns, like maybe he was expecting an argument. Then he offers a small nod.

"I don't know if it's guilt or what, but since I came back...You are the only one who sees any good in me. Even I don't. And Bruce," Jason says, cutting himself with a shake of his head. Like Bruce's name is explanation enough. He looks back at Dick and says, "If I get another shot, when I get another shot, if I can pull the trigger without wondering if it means losing you too, I'll do it. I won't hesitate."

Dick doesn't doubt that even remotely. He's too thrown by the implications of everything else Jason's saying to bother worrying about that future promise though.

Jason gives a one shouldered shrug and continues, "But knowing what I've done and actually being there when I do it are two different things, and I couldn't--I guess I didn't wanna lose that yet."

He just blinks for a second before remembering he's supposed to respond to that.

He has no idea how to respond to that.

Jason not wanting to lose him maybe shouldn't be shocking. After all, he almost got himself killed saving Dick's life. But that's a different matter for a whole number of reasons.

For one thing, as screwed up as it is, Dick's pretty sure letting the Joker live was a bigger sacrifice in Jason's eyes than risking his own life. For another, Jason not wanting Dick to die never necessarily meant he wanted Dick to be a part of his life. Never meant he actually cared what Dick thought of him.

And Dick doesn't believe for a second that he's the only one who sees any good left in Jason. Bruce can't express it, sure, but Bruce sees it. He has to. He hasn't talked extensively with Tim on the subject, but the kid's already attached to him, Dick can tell.

But it doesn't really matter what Dick believes anyway. What matters is what Jason believes, and eventually he's going to get Jason to believe he's loved. It just might take awhile.

"Little wing," Dick says earnestly.

"Don't."

"Jason," he says, pausing until Jason actually looks at him. "Nothing you do could ever get rid of me."

He's not sure Jason totally trusts him on that, but he nods anyway. Looks up at the ceiling a second, and when he looks back there's a much less telling expression on his face.

He snorts and says, "Good. 'Cause I mean it. Next shot I get, and I will get another one, I'm taking it."

"Thanks for the warning," Dick says.

"Sure," Jason says dismissively. There's a beat of silence, and then he nods towards the wall, asking, "D'you mind collecting those for me? I need to work on my grouping."


	30. Family Matters

Truth be told, Dick was so focused on how much Jason was going to hate being stuck in the manor while his leg healed that it never even occurred to him how much everyone else was going to hate it too.

Which isn't to say that they don't want him around. Of course they want him around. Jason's family, and they love him like family. And Dick one hundred percent meant it when he said there was nothing Jason could ever do to change that.

That being said, Jason isn't, generally, the easiest person in the world to get along with.

It takes all of about three days for Dick to decide he's not so slowly losing his mind.

Jason hasn't been spending all that time in the Batcave medbay. No, Alfred moved him up into one of the guest rooms after two days. All the walls in that room have yet to be subject to target practice, which might be a good sign. It also might just mean Jason hasn't talked Tim into bringing him more sharp objects yet.

Those two, Dick's learned, either get on like a house on fire, or are at each other's throats to the extent Dick's worried they're going to set the house on fire. And there is no in between.

Yesterday Dick caught them arguing over whether Donatello or Raphael would win in a fight--Dick doesn't see why any of the Ninja Turtles would fight anyway, they're a team. But if they did, Leonardo would be the obvious winner, they're both wrong. Anyway, it was a disturbingly normal conversation. Tim laughed at one of Jason's jokes, and Dick thought that possibly he was dreaming.

That same day Dick left them alone for like ten minutes, and when he came back they were having some big spat. When Dick asked what it was about they were both quick to say it was none of his business, but whatever it was, it didn't sound good.

And he can't even complain about their fighting, not really. Because while they offer him a temporary wheelchair to get around the manor in until he can do more walking, Jason hasn't been terribly inclined to spend time in any room they're in. He mostly stays put in the guest room or the library. 

Which means Tim has to actively seek Jason out to fight with him. Which means, to some degree, Tim has to actually want to talk to Jason.

Which is a hell of a lot more than Dick can say for Bruce.

As far as he knows, those two haven't even been in the same room as each other since that last fight they had while Dick wasn't around. That is, until this morning.

Dick's about to head out on a morning run, it's the first day all week it hasn't been rainy. He can hear arguing before he actually rounds the corner to see anybody standing in the hallway. Distinctly Bruce and Jason.

He just catches Jason's voice saying, "--think I don't know a real loaded gun when I'm holding one?"

"That's not what this is about."

"Sure. Then by all means, tell me what this is about, hm?"

Maybe he shouldn't eavesdrop, but Dick's also not totally sure he should interrupt. At the very least it sounds like they're talking, and maybe if they can actually say what they need to say to each other they'll figure things out at least a little. He hangs back before he can actually turn around the corner.

"I want you to be okay, that's all."

"Oh please," Jason scoffs. "All of a sudden you care about that?"

"I already said I was sorry for what happened last year."

"Yeah, well you should be."

"And I want to make it up to you, Jason. But I can't do that if you won't even let me try."

"There's no trying, Bruce, you can't fix this. You don't even want to, you just wanna fix me. Well guess what? I'm not broken."

It sounds like Bruce is choosing his words very carefully when he says, "I don't think you're broken, Jay. I just think you're hurting. People don't always make the right choices when they're hurting. That doesn't make them bad."

"Bruce, the Red Hood isn't personal. It's not about me or my feelings, it's about doing what has to be done, plain and simple."

"Taking a life should never be simple," comes Bruce's indignant reply. And then, a little calmer, "And I don't believe you're as unattached as you say you are."

Jason snorts. "I'm not?"

"The majority of the Red Hood's targets are drug lords and wife beaters, or criminals who've been preying on kids. Are you telling me that's a coincidence?"

Dick's not saying he hasn't noticed the pattern, too. He is saying, though, that he probably wouldn't have chosen this moment in time to bring that up.

"Fuck off. If I pull the trigger on someone it's 'cause they deserve it and that's all there is to it. Stop trying to make this into something it's not."

"That's all there is to it?" Bruce says skeptically. "Every time?"

"Damn right."

"I'll admit I've been too harsh on you in the past, but it's only because I've been where you are."

"Don't gimme that shit, you haven't been anywhere near where I am until you've been six feet under."

"You're right. It wasn't the same," Bruce says reasonably. "But I know what it's like to be angry, to want revenge for what happened to you. So much that it consumes you. There are people who made you hurt and you want--You think you want to make them hurt, too. You know it won't make your pain go away, but you don't care because at least they'll feel some of that, too. I know what that's like, Jason, I get it."

"You're wrong."

"I don't think I am. And you can't live with that anger forever."

"Who says I want to?" Jason challenges. "I didn't ask to be brought back, I didn't ask for any of this. But I'm here, and I have a job to do, since apparently none of you are gonna do it."

There's a haunting implication that, in the sentiment of living with anger, it's not the anger that Jason takes issue with. Dick would very much like to believe he's misinterpreting that.

He can't tell for sure whether Bruce gets the same impression or not when he replies, "I'm worried about you, Jay. About what happens to you if you continue to go down this path that you've chosen."

Dick's halfway towards offering a response before he remembers he's technically eavesdropping. He doesn't have to say anything anyway.

Jason says, "Oh, so you sliced my neck open for my sake, did you? You care _so much_ that you just had to grab up some new kid to fill my place before my corpse was even cold. And when you kept my existence a secret from Alfred and Dick for a year, you let me think they just didn't give two shits that I was alive, that was because you were so worried about me?"

He can hear the wince on Bruce's face as he says, "That was never my intention."

"We are well past intention, Bruce," Jason snarls. "You wanna know why I never came home? That was never a fucking option. All last year did was prove it."

"I don't think either of us were at our best last year, and I'm sorry, Jason. I am. But it was always an option, you just didn't take it. You chose to terrorize the city instead. That was your choice."

"You son of a bitch, I thought--" Jason says, before cutting himself off. After a second he restarts, "I thought I could trust you, you of all people, to understand. To get justice. You always talk so much about fucking justice, but I came back and nothing was different. It was like I was never even there at all, you just moved on. I came back and I thought--I _knew_ that I had to handle this alone, because that's what I was. Alone."

Bruce answers with conviction, "You were never alone."

"Yes I was!" Jason roars. "And you. You let me believe it. So no, Bruce, I couldn't come home. This never was my home, and we both know it."

It breaks Dick's heart to hear because he knows that's not true. He knows Jason knows that's not true.

This place was, at one point in time, his home. And he thinks he's lost it. And for a kid who spent so long not having a home, a kid who's had home ripped from him repeatedly, for a kid who knows by experience home isn't the place it's the people, that's so much worse.

"Jason, I--"

"Don't you fucking dare say you're sorry one more fucking time, Bruce, I don't wanna hear it."

"We're family."

It's not an excuse. At least, Dick doubts Bruce intends it as one. It sounds more like it's meant to be an apology without actually using the words.

A statement of comfort.

Jason's quiet a second. Dick half considers leaning around the corner just to see his face, so he can maybe guess what Jason's thinking, but he's half hoping the quiet is a good sign. And if they're about actually getting somewhere, he's unwilling to interrupt.

And then Jason clears his throat and answers calmly, "That doesn't mean anything."

Of course it means something. It means everything.

"It doesn't?" Bruce asks.

"Y'know," Jason says thoughtfully. "Willis was my family, too. That never changed anything."

Oh, Jason.

"I--" Bruce starts, and then falters. His voice sounds uncharacteristically small when he says, "That's really how you see me now?"

"Bruce," Jason says, almost reluctantly, and if Dick didn't know any better he'd think Jason wanted to take it back. But the he lets out a heavy sigh and says, "Things are what they are. It's my fault too, I know that. But I just don't see that changing any time soon."

"Then I guess there's nothing more to say."

"Guess not," Jason says. It must look like Bruce is about to say something else anyway, because he's quick to add, a bit more gruffly, "You said you had a meeting to get to. Don't be late on my account."

"Sure," Bruce answers stiffly.

Dick hears the sounds of footsteps retreating down the hall, which he assumes are Bruce's, seeing as Jason can't actually do much walking. And ideally Dick could be able to rush around the corner and stop Bruce from leaving. Get those two to keep the conversation going, because it wasn't going well exactly, but there were a few moments there that sounded like progress.

Ideally, Dick could know what to say to one or both of them to make things right.

But he doesn't, so he just stands there until Bruce's footsteps have gone. And then he stays standing there a second longer, wondering how long he has to wait to come around the corner before it doesn't look like he was eavesdropping.

He winces involuntarily when he hears Jason saying, "You can come out now, Dick."

Right. There's next to no successful eavesdropping in this family.

"Hi, Jason," Dick says awkwardly, stepping around the corner with as innocent of an expression as a guilty person can manage.

"How long you been back there?" Jason asks, quirking an eyebrow at him.

"Depends," he says. "How long have you known I was back there?"

Jason doesn't laugh. To be fair, Dick really wasn't expecting him to.

He drums his fingers restlessly on the rim of a wheel, then huffs and pushes to start the chair down the hall once more. Keeps going as if Dick isn't there, which means Dick has to step out of the way to avoid getting his toes smushed.

With a small glance back in the direction Bruce must've left in, Dick asks carefully, "Where you headed? I can push you."

"Both my arms still work fine, actually," Jason says, distinctly unimpressed with the offer. "I don't need your help."

He has a feeling that last bit extends beyond the pushing of a wheelchair. He trails after Jason all the same, walking in silence at his side for a minute or two before saying, "You okay?"

It's a dumb question. He knows it's a dumb question. Still, sometimes it's just nice to be asked, regardless of what the answer is.

"Somehow, I think I'll survive," Jason answers dryly.

Dick manages a half of a half of a smile, and Jason rolls his eyes and turns his gaze ahead. It does occur to Dick that, while he just about knows this place well enough to get around without looking where he's going, Jason probably doesn't anymore. Of all the things to get upset about, that probably shouldn't make the list. For some reason, it just does.

He doesn't know what makes him say it, but Dick offers, "I won't tell you to forgive him, but...He really is trying, y'know."

"He'll forget about it the second I'm gone," Jason says surely. 

"He never did before."

Jason comes to an abrupt halt in the center of the hall, and Dick walks a step or two ahead of him before realizing it enough to come to a stop himself. He doesn't actually have to turn around to know what level of glare Jason has on his face, but he does anyway.

He's halfway towards a defense when Jason passes a hand through his hair and says, "I know you're just trying to fix things between us, Dick, but you can't. So either lay off or fuck off, got it?"

"Y'know, the only reason most things can't be fixed is 'cause people give up on them."

"Things can't be like they were before, and they shouldn't," Jason growls. "I'm not making you pick sides, but don't make me listen to you defend him."

"Yeah," Dick sighs. "Okay."

Jason narrows his eyes suspiciously, like he's not expecting Dick to concede so easily. He's waiting for the other shoe to drop. After a split second of scrutiny, he gives a small nod before repeating, "Okay."

And Jason's scrutiny was probably justified, because Dick's by no means dropping it. Not out of any loyalty he has to Bruce, either. He loves Bruce a whole lot but he knows he can't make anyone else see things the way he does. He knows a majority of Jason's anger is more than justified. The worst part about growing up was realizing Bruce Wayne, and by extension the Batman, are by no means flawless. He makes mistakes. Big ones.

But he's trying to atone for them. And he was right, when he said Jason can't live with that anger forever. Eventually it's going to tear him apart, and Dick's not about to let the kid self destruct.

Jason doesn't have to forgive Bruce. Dick would never ask that of him, it's not for him to ask. He does, however, know Jason can't keep hiding behind those walls he's built. He's got to address it. And if, after he's done that, he decides to stay mad at Bruce, well Dick won't be thrilled about it but he'll accept it.

So he's by no means dropping it. He is, however, dropping it for now.

He'd like to maintain what little bit of trust he's built back with Jason.

"So," he says, stepping out of the way for Jason to continue in that direction down the halls. "How's the book?"


	31. When the Chips Are Down

"Y'know Todd, you could just swallow your pride and ask me for help."

"I really would," comes Jason's reply, slightly strained. "Only pride leaves a shit aftertaste, and B doesn't keep any semi-decent whiskey for me to wash it down with."

"Language please, Master Jason."

"What's wrong with whiskey?"

"He meant shit, dumbass."

"Oh fuck, my bad."

"Gentlemen."

"Sorry, Alfred," Tim and Jason chorus in unison.

Dick loiters in the hallway for just a minute, wondering if he looks as baffled as he feels. He's not even trying to eavesdrop or anything this time, he's just a little floored to hear what sounds like a normal family conversation coming from the kitchen.

It sounds like Jason's deliberately chosen to be in a room with other people. Dick won't go so far as to say Jason sounds exactly happy, but he doesn't sound filled with rage either, which is something of an important step for him.

He can't help but smile when he steps up to the doorway and spots the three of them.

Jason's at one of the island stools, although it's been pulled up to the counter by the stove. There's a mixing bowl in front of him, and it looks like he's doing his best to grab something from a drawer on the other side of the sink without actually getting up. Tim's perched atop the counter by aforementioned drawer, pointedly not helping Jason reach.

Alfred's grabbing something from the fridge. His back, probably deliberately, turned to their shenanigans.

"Hey guys," Dick says by way of greeting. "What's going on?"

"I'm making pancakes," Jason announces, matter of fact, with a quick glance over his shoulder at Dick. "Or I will be, soon as I can reach the damn whisk."

"Pancakes?" Dick echoes skeptically. "It's four in the afternoon."

"I got bored. You want a pancake or not, Grayson?"

"Yes please."

"Then quit being a judgy little bitch," Jason says gruffly. Tim snorts. Behind them, Alfred clears his throat pointedly and Jason adjusts with an overly cheerful, "Sorry Alfie."

* * *

Excluding the rare moments like those, Jason's good moods remain as elusive as ever. Fight seems to be his default behavior and, even if he wants to sometimes, Dick knows he can't one hundred percent blame him.

And, despite rare moments like those, Tim's still not immune to getting in spats with Jason. Yes Dick knows spats is a much nicer word than should probably be allowed to describe it. But saying they're predestined to be at each other's throats, possibly for the rest of their lives, all because of things like bullheaded personalities and wildly differing opinions on things like Bruce Wayne and the very idea of Robin, is way too much of a mouthful.

It's Dick's internal monologue dammit, and he'll use whatever words he wants.

Anyway, it's later that same night that they get into one of their little spats.

He and Tim somehow managed to talk Jason into playing video games with them after Tim had finished his homework, and that's just what they've been doing, with the rain coming down outside the window as contrastingly calm background, for all of twenty minutes when it goes south.

Dick's honestly expecting a bigger scene than they get when Bruce pokes his head into the room. He raps his knuckles against the doorframe to get their attention, and Dick looks up as Tim pauses the game.

Out of the corner of his eye Dick catches Jason shifting in his seat a bit, but he can't tell what Jason's thinking without actually looking over.

Bruce's gaze flickers for just a second over to Jason, but he doesn't acknowledge him. Instead he looks back to Dick, saying, "I got a lead on something. If you're up for it, I could use some backup later tonight."

"I'm in," Tim says, looking up eagerly.

"No you're not," Bruce says disapprovingly. "It's a school night."

Jason scoffs.

Before either he or Bruce can comment, Dick clears his throat and says, "Yeah, I can back you up. What time are you heading out?"

"About two hours."

"Works for me."

"Thank you," Bruce says with a small nod. He opens his mouth as if to say something else, then shakes his head and disappears back the way he came from.

He's not gone more than seven seconds before Jason's repeating with a dry chuckle, "It's a school night."

Already defensive, although maybe for the wrong reason, Tim starts, "If you make another crack about me being younger than you I'm beating you up."

"Relax, half-pint," Jason says, rolling his eyes. "It's just funny hearing the old man pretend like he actually cares you're a kid."

To his credit, he doesn't actually sound like he's trying to pick a fight this time. He just sounds ironically amused. Which will, on this subject, intentional or no, start a fight. Dick already knows.

"Jason," Dick says in less than optimistic warning. One that of course Jason ignores, because he's Jason and he's always taken warning as challenges.

He continues with an exaggerated Mr. Rogers style voice, "Hey champ, make sure you do real good in school this week, and maybe this weekend I'll let you help me stop an armed robbery! And if you can beat Killer Croc in an arm wrestle and not get eaten, we can go for ice cream. It's fucking ridiculous, come on."

"Shut up, Todd. It's not like that and you know it."

"Yeah, silly me. How could I forget?" Jason concedes with a blatant sarcasm. "Batman doesn't take you out for ice cream, he's allergic to giving praise or approval of any kind."

Tim scoffs. "Well maybe if you did something worth approving of it'd be a different story."

"Hey, me observing that Bruce doesn't know how to be supportive is not me saying I want his support. Don't get it mixed up."

"You guys know you don't have to have the same opinions about Bruce, right?" Dick offers tiredly.

To be honest, they both have points.

It's true that Bruce hasn't always been what you would call skilled at communication. He's been working on it since before Jason came around in the beginning, but yeah, a lot of the progress he's made happened in between now and then. Jason doesn't know this Bruce, he knows a Bruce from six years ago.

The fact that a good deal of Bruce's aforementioned progress tends to go out the window when 'the Red Hood' is in the room probably doesn't help much with that.

"Whatever, sycophants," Jason grumbles under his breath.

Which is at least, to his credit, not necessarily arguing. It's probably not the most mature response, but fine. He's not yelling yet, it's sort of a win.

Tim, on the other hand. Tim clears his throat and asks, in a tone that very much implies he heard Jason the first time, "What was that?"

"You asking for a definition, kid?" Jason says with disinterest. "I called you a bootlicker, that make more sense? How 'bout flunky? Bat-puppet. You starting to get it?"

"I know what it means," Tim snaps indignantly. Then, "You probably don't though, if you think that's all I am."

"Hey, don't take it personal. I'm calling Dick one too."

Tim seems largely unimpressed when he sends a look Dick's way, as if to ask 'You believe this shit?' Dick's been putting up with this shit long enough that yes, he does believe it.

He sighs, "Don't drag me into this."

"Why not? You were so eager to butt in just a second ago," Jason says.

"Yeah, to prevent the argument, not to join it."

"No, of course not. God forbid the great Dick Grayson stoop to actually having an opinion of his own."

"He's the only one consistently defending you, and you're gonna snap at him too?" Tim says, moving to the edge of his chair. "No wonder you think we must be brainless lackeys if we listen to Bruce, you've got no fucking concept of loyalty."

As grateful as Dick is that Tim feels compelled to defend him, at this particular moment in time he really wishes he wouldn't. It's not helping the situation in the slightest. He swears he's better at deescalating when it's not his own family involved. Although by now he probably has more than enough practice.

Jason snorts derisively. Says, "Yeah, maybe when your so-called family finds someone new to fill _your_ place before your body even starts to rot you can talk to me about the importance of loyalty."

Tim groans impatiently, slouching dramatically lower against the back of his chair, declaring, "We get it, you died."

"Come on, Tim, seriously?" Dick says reproachfully.

He figures the 'don't be so insensitive' is implied.

That said, Jason doesn't seem offended. Just as annoyed as he was before Tim indicated he was bored with hearing about Jason dying. Maybe someone not obsessing over it, even subconsciously, in every interaction they have with him is refreshing in a way.

"He didn't replace you anyway, I did," Tim adds pointedly.

Largely unimpressed, Jason says, "The fuck are you talking about?"

"You think Bruce just moved on after you died but he didn't. He was a wreck for months."

"Yeah," Jason tosses out, almost bored. "You can imagine I wasn't too crazy about it either."

"Shut up about yourself for five seconds," Tim says, not necessarily harshly but firm enough that Jason's mask of disinterest flickers. "He was a _wreck,_ Jason. He was downright reckless, have you ever seen Bruce reckless before?"

Jason shoots a small frown over at Dick, as if silently asking for confirmation. Dick might be reading that wrong, but he confirms anyway, "It was bad."

"He was gonna get himself killed too, and he's too smart not to have known it. I think he just didn't care," Tim says evenly. "That's how fucked up he was about it. It would've destroyed him."

There's at least a hint of surprise buried in Jason's features, only Dick can't say for sure if that's at being told how much Bruce was actually affected by his death, or just at being told off by a nerdy fifteen year old. Regardless, he moves on quick enough.

With a reluctant sigh, Jason nods towards Tim and says, "Fine, I'll bite. Where d'you play in here?"

"I figured Batman needed a Robin."

"And you just decided that was your problem? Just like that?"

"Tim's right, he wasn't gonna see it on his own," Dick says, matter of fact. "Because he didn't want to replace you. I tried to tell you that was never his intention."

"That's what I'm trying to get through your big dumb skull," Tim says.

Jason narrows his eyes momentarily, and Dick's half expecting him to be offended at being called dumb. Instead he says, entirely unfazed, "Yeah okay, boohoo. Poor Bruce."

"Grow up," Tim snaps.

"Frankly, kid, I don't care who put you here. Bruce is still knowingly putting you in danger, he didn't fucking learn anything."

It's not entirely true. Tim's not in nearly as much danger as either of them were as Robins, the rules have changed a lot since they lost Jason. Which Jason already knows, at least to some degree, because he was just laughing at the 'No Robin-ing on School Nights' rule.

Before he has the chance to point as much out, Tim's answering with a condescending, "It's cute you're worried about my safety, but I don't need it. I can handle myself."

"Hey so can Bruce, so maybe you can stop fighting his fucking battles for him," Jason growls.

"You're only sitting on that couch right now because of him," Tim argues.

Dick doesn't see Jason getting nearly as good treatment for that leg without Bruce's resources. Which is not an excuse for anything else, especially not when they've known Bruce to offer that same help to strangers or even enemies. Still, Tim's point is that obviously Bruce does care, regardless of how Jason views it.

Naturally, that's not the interpretation Jason runs with. Jason knows what Tim means, too, he's just being difficult.

"Newsflash pipsqueak, I don't want to be here."

"Then why don't you just go, and let us get back to our lives without trying to make us as miserable as you?"

"Can't wait," Jason fires back without pause. "But hey, at least I'm smart enough to know when I'm not wanted. You're in for a rude awakening when you catch on."

"Jason," Dick says crisply.

"What, you gonna tell me not to talk to the kid like that? Somebody's gotta tell him the facts," Jason insists before rounding back on Tim to say venomously, "When the chips are down, Bruce will bail on you. You're just a tool to him, we all are."

"That's not--" Dick starts. He scrubs a frustrated hand over his face and says, "You might not want us in your family, but we want you in ours."

"We're not brothers," Jason says, like that should be obvious. Like he's infuriated it's not obvious. "Bruce Wayne isn't our fucking dad. Your dad is dead. Mine was an all around piece of shit. And yours, Timothy Drake?"

"Stop now, Jason," Dick says firmly.

"Yours just couldn't be bothered to remember you existed," Jason concludes. "Yeah you're not the only one with access to other people's files."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know you, I was you. D'you know what the common denominator is?" Jason plows on as if uninterrupted. "Bruce knew nobody would care if something happened to kids like us. He knew we'd be desperate for a family, hell two outta three of us wouldn't know a caring family if it punched us in the face. And he could use it to make us dependent on him."

"Bruce isn't like that."

"Sure he is. He's a manipulative, opportunistic old bastard yes, but he is no parent."

Tim stares ahead at the coffee table for a second. Dick would almost say his feelings are hurt, except he looks mad more than anything. Actually ironically, in that instant, what with his jaw clenched and the fists balled at his side, he almost looks like Jason.

With a small nod, Tim gets up out of the chair and answers coldly, "You know something, Todd?"

"What?" Jason snarls.

"I think I liked you better when you were dead."

"Tim--" Dick begins to say.

"Yeah, get in line."

Tim offers one final, meaningful glare before turning and storming off.

"Tim, wait," Dick calls after him, even as Tim vanishes around the corner into the hall. He gets to his feet too, sends a glance over at Jason and asks, "What is wrong with you?"

"Me?" Jason parrots in indignant disbelief.

"If you know what we all have in common you should know better than to talk about it like that," Dick says accusingly.

He's been as understanding as he can with Jason's habit of picking fights. Something he only seems to do more now he's staying at the manor, which might be the confinement getting to him or just the larger group of people to pick those fights with. And Dick gets that Jason's mad, Jason's allowed to be mad.

But there's no call for taking it where he did. There's no call for Tim saying what he did, either, but Dick can only talk to one of them at a time.

Maybe he can't even do that much.

Jason rolls his eyes, lifting himself off of the couch to drop back into the wheelchair parked by its side. As he does he says, "I don't know what you're waiting for. I'm not taking it back."

"Yeah, I'm not that optimistic," Dick sighs.

"Truth's ugly sometimes, bluebird," Jason answers bitterly. "Hurt feelings are gonna be the least of that kid's problem if he can't figure that out."

Dick's ready to argue, but he doesn't bother. Jason's already leaving.

Not fast enough that Dick couldn't follow him and keep the conversation going. But Jason's also not the only one in this house who needs him right now.

His shoulders drop in resignation as Jason goes, and Dick turns to see if he can't find Tim before he has to get ready to leave with Bruce.


	32. Walls

That night, once again, finds him and Bruce braving the perpetually stormy weather of the past week or so to go wreck some bad guys' shit.

If Dick's being honest, he's looking forward to the distraction. Because forget about leading the Teen Titans, and forget about all the supervillains and their terrible plans and even worse sense of humor. Forget all of that, these days he's pretty sure getting his family to exist in one room together is the biggest challenge he's ever had to face.

At any rate, Dick's pretty intrigued as to what exactly they're doing tonight when he makes his way down to the Cave. 'I got a lead on something' is a deliberately vague statement, and whether it was Tim or Jason or both that Bruce didn't want to clue in to what that lead is, Dick's curious to say the least.

He has half a guess that Bruce managed to find Kodro, who dipped somewhere between them getting knocked out with tranquilizer darts and them waking up in a janky basement.

He's half right. As it turns out, Kodro's dead.

"Well, at least Jason'll be happy," Dick murmurs when Bruce passes him the file.

But it wasn't, obviously, Jason responsible. Which means, more than likely, that it's one of Joker's men who killed him. The poor bastard had probably served his purpose once Joker got a hold of them, from there he was probably just another loose end. Or competition, depending on how well his business practice fostered here in Gotham.

"I was able to narrow down the suspect list to two people," Bruce says, dropping those files down on the table atop the one on Kodro. He taps one with an index finger and declares, "He also just so happened to be Joker's messenger pigeon when he was at Arkham."

"This guy?" Dick asks, picking up the folder with a frown and flipping through the info Bruce has on him. "How d'you know?"

"He's a security guard at Arkham. The only one I could find who had contact with both the Joker and Jane Doe, he's the only link to how they could've planned Joker's escape," Bruce says easily. "Barbara did some digging for me, and she found encrypted messages from his phone to one I found back at the docks."

"You went back to the docks?"

"Yes," Bruce says, without elaborating much further.

Dick shrugs and sets the folder back down on the table. It's not hard to imagine Kodro or one of his men having dropped the phone in the chaos. Nor is hard to imagine that, if all that intel is accurate, which it definitely is knowing Bruce and Barbara, this guy's definitely the way Joker was getting messages in and out of Arkham.

He indicates the second file, then, and asks, "And this guy?"

"Hitman," Bruce clarifies. "With a reputation for using poison darts, not unlike the less lethal ones that were used on us. His name, funny enough, also came up in our guard's phone."

"You think he was there that night?"

"It makes sense."

It makes a lot of sense. Dick nods, folding his arms and looking back up from the table. He arches an eyebrow and says, "When did you do all of this?"

"Most of it? While you and your brothers were eating pancakes," Bruce answers affably. Then, "But Babs and I found the phone a few nights ago."

Dick huffs. Not entirely offended, but maybe just a smidge. "I could've helped you with this."

"I'm sure you could have," Bruce says, nodding as he straightens the files back up. "I also figured you've had a lot on your plate lately, and you might like a little break."

He wouldn't exactly refer the past few days as a break, but he does appreciate the sentiment.

"So which of them are we going after tonight then?" he asks.

"Both."

"Both?" Dick says, trying not to sound too excited.

* * *

The plan, as they went over it, is to first bring in the guard. A man by the name of Herman Fernsby Dankworth. With a name like that, Dick can't say he exactly faults him for turning to a life of crime. And this coming from a guy named Dick.

Anyway, once they have Herman they hopefully have his phone. Bruce can send an encrypted message to the hitman, Bob Miller, a less fun and less fitting name, offering him the location of a new hit. From there, they'll stakeout the location until their guy shows up.

Herman, who's clearly operating under the notion that no one's caught on to his involvement with the Joker, can be found at his home address.

Bruce takes the back entrance while Dick knocks crisply at the front door, with a call of, "Herman Fernsby Dankworth?"

"You can just say Herman," Bruce tells him through the comms, with a distinct disapproval.

"You think I'm gonna pass up saying a name like that?" Dick challenges. He knocks again and says, "I have a pizza here for Herman Fernsby Dankworth?"

"I didn't order any--" a voice starts to say, cutting off abruptly as the door swings open enough for him to see out of it. Poor Herman comes face to face, not with a pizza delivery guy, but with Nightwing, and it probably ruins the bastards night. "Shit."

"Hi Herman," Dick says with a grin.

Herman turns and runs. They were sort of expecting that he might.

Dick follows after him at more of a walk, rounding the corner into the living room just in time to watch Herman Fernsby Dankworth running directly into Bruce.

"I think it's time we had a little talk," Bruce says.

"A talk?" Herman asks, less than hopefully.

Dick drops gracefully onto Herman's couch, putting his feet up on the coffee table and patting the cushion at his side. With a cautious look back at Bruce, Herman carefully walks over and sits down next to him.

Dick glances over at him and prompts, "How're you liking the new job, Herman? I bet you meet all sorts of interesting people, hm?"

It takes a little more prompting, but a talk with Herman Fernsby Dankworth is enough to confirm everything Bruce and Babs already figured out. He doesn't go so far as to give them any information they can use on Bob Miller or anyone else. He just confesses to helping Joker talk to Jane Doe, a hitman, and Kodro, and then he clams up.

Herman Fernsby Dankworth doesn't seem like the excessively loyal type. Dick imagines he's more afraid what those other people might do if they found out he talked.

From there they get the phone he's been using to talk to Bob Miller, and then hand him over to the GCPD.

Texts sent and location pre-determined, Dick and Bruce wind up laying across the roof of an abandoned Chinese restaurant, overlooking the alley below that is to be the meeting place.

They're going to be waiting for awhile.

He knows from personal experience that Bruce can go for hours on a stakeout without saying anything. Dick doesn't posses that same skill really. After maybe eight whole minutes of quiet he glances over at Bruce and asks quietly, "You gonna update the others when we catch this guy?"

Bruce offers a noncommittal grunt and then allows the silence to lift back up.

Dick can't say for sure if the lack of response is because of his commitment to their stealth, or because he knows there's a specific person Dick's referring to when he says the others. Of course he knows Bruce will talk to Tim. And Alfred's already in the loop.

The non-answer is sort of an answer, in its own way.

Despite his staying at the manor lately, Dick really hasn't stopped to talk to Bruce for awhile. That is, actually talk to him. They've eaten meals together and had adjacent to normal conversations, and short disagreements at the beginning where Dick was trying to get Bruce to talk to Jason. But Bruce has been absent and busy--probably gathering all the information to get the lead that brought them here--and Dick's been distracted enough between Jason and Tim.

He's got no real idea what's going on in Bruce's head. The non-answer tells him that, probably, they're back to the old Bruce refusing to even talk about Jason routine.

A stakeout might not be the time and place for that conversation though, and for now he's willing to drop it.

Except that okay, maybe he's not so willing to drop it. Another minute passes and he adds, "You know he doesn't hate you, right?"

"We're not getting into this right now," Bruce says without looking back.

"We're not getting into this right now," Dick echoes back below his breath in a squeaky voice. He rolls his eyes and turns his gaze front again, though.

Unsurprisingly, all is quiet on the ground below them. Even that one raccoon that's been rooting through the bins for the last five minutes is gone. There's quite literally nothing to see right now.

Bruce doesn't stoop so low as to call Dick out for being immature, although it would probably be justified. He just says, "I've tried talking to him. He made it clear he doesn't want that, and I have to respect his decision. Leave it alone now."

"You know if that were true he wouldn't be sticking around."

Bruce spares a glance away from the alley below, for the sole purpose of giving Dick a skeptical look. One that isn't even visible below the cowl, but one he manages to convey anyway. He answers flatly, "He can't walk."

Dick shrugs. "That hasn't really stopped him before."

In fact, twice now he's managed to leave a place they thought they were keeping him in with that broken leg. He punched Dick in the face to do it once, and sure he enlisted Tim's help that second time, but the point remains. Jason's obstinate and headstrong like no one Dick's ever met, and if he really wants to leave someplace that bad, he'll do it.

Or at the very least he'll try. And as of right now, there have been no more escape attempts. Just an awful lot of complaining. Because sure he wants to leave, but not totally.

"You think he wants to be there?" Bruce challenges, his disbelief glaringly clear.

"Of course not," Dick says, shaking his head. "I also don't think he wants to be alone anymore. He just has too many walls up to admit it."

Maybe Dick's wrong. Maybe Jason's only staying because he doesn't have anywhere better to go. Because he knows he'll get better medical treatment at the manor than at some dodgy old safehouse.

He has to believe that's not the whole truth.

Bruce clears his throat and turns his attention back to the ground. After a second, he says, "Some walls exist for a reason."

"That's kind of bullshit," Dick answers with a passive disapproval.

Bruce gives an irritable sigh and says, "I'm confused. Weren't you the one who wanted me to own up to where I went wrong with him? I have the bruise to prove it."

"I didn't hit you that hard," Dick grumbles.

Besides, just deciding to let Jason push him away isn't what Dick meant when he said Bruce had to do better by him.

He knows Jason's right and that things can't go back to the way they were before. He knows both of them already have enough difficulties trusting people to begin with. And trust is a hell of a lot easier to earn before you've already lost it once. That doesn't mean they shouldn't try.

"I'm not giving up on him, okay?" Bruce says solemnly. "But I let him down, and he's not exactly innocent either. Now I'm willing to give him a second chance. I don't agree with what he's done as the Red Hood but I know why he did it, and I'll work with him if he'll let me. But it's up to him if he wants to give me the chance, and I can't make him change his mind."

Dick sighs. Nods and says, "Yeah okay. I guess I get it."

"Let's try and stay focused now," Bruce says, as if they'd just gotten distracted talking about the weather or something equally unimportant.

The thing is, Dick believes him. He believes Bruce wants to make up for his past mistakes, he even believes Bruce is willing to give Jason that second chance. But if that second chance hinges on Jason not killing anyone ever again, he's not confident how long it'll even last. Jason made it pretty clear he doesn't plan to change the Red Hood's methods yet.

Which is a whole different issue entirely, but frankly, Dick's not worrying about that yet. He has a feeling they'll have more luck getting Jason to change his methods when he trusts them again anyway.

But right now, Jason doesn't even know how much Bruce cares. He's going to read this radio silence as an act of not caring. Because how can he not, when Bruce most of his caring about Jason when Jason's not around?

He only realizes that he hasn't, in fact, been staying focused when Bruce nudges Dick's shoulder with his own. Indicates a car passing by and says, "That Buick's driven by three times now."

Dick eyes the car as it pulls over to the side of the road across the street. The windows are tinted. License plates missing.

With a small nod, he says, "Probably not here for the chow mein."

He checks his watch. Their hitman thinks he's here a good fifteen minutes early. They were sort of expecting him to get here early, that's why they doubted the target not being immediately present would throw him off.

The sort of killer who relies on poison darts to take out their target also relies on finding the best vantage point for that beforehand. He'd want to scope out the area, figure out where he could shoot from without being spotted. Unfortunately for him, he doesn't seem to have been counting on them showing up earlier.

Because the best vantage point is the very roof they're waiting on.

They've been hidden by the shadows this whole time, but just as a precaution Dick ducks a little lower before Bob Miller can turn his gaze on the roof. They stay there until they hear him screwing with the lock on the front door. Once the door's been opened and closed, they get to their feet and b-line for the door that opens out onto the roof.

Dick presses against the wall to one side of the door while Bruce takes the other. In another minute, the door is creaking open.

Like they planned, Dick takes the offense as soon as the door opens. Moves to drive an escrima stick into Bob Miller's ribcage. Less like they planned, Bob's reflexes are pretty quick. That, or they weren't as subtle about their setup as they thought. Regardless, Bob manages to dodge the attack, taking hold of Dick's wrist as he does and hurling him back through the doorway.

The door shuts behind Dick, but it doesn't latch or anything. He's quick to recover his footing, although his pride might take a little longer, and then he swings the door back open.

He spots Bruce and Bob grappling about three paces away from the door. Looks like Bob's blowgun also doubles as a bo staff in close combat. Actually, it's sort of a neat gadget.

While Bob's distracted trying to hit Bruce, Dick comes up behind him and swings at the back of his leg.

Bob drops to one knee, but as he does he drives the bo back behind him, and Dick has to leap to the side to avoid the end colliding with his shin. From there he passes the staff around his back to swing it out. Bruce dodges it pretty fast.

He grips it more like a baseball bat than a bo staff when he turns to swing at Dick next, and Dick parries it with one stick, driving the other into Bob's side, sending a warning volt of electricity with it.

The fight doesn't last for very long. Bob Miller's a little more exciting than his name suggests, but he's still no match for both Bruce and Dick.

The night ends with them apprehending him, and Herman Fernsby Dankworth.

Even with the rain, the drive back is one of the easiest drives Dick's been on in awhile. Just the knowledge that the Joker is back in custody, Kodro is dead, and his killers and Joker's link to the outside world will be behind bars soon, it's enough to lift some weight off all their shoulders.

Case closed.

Now if only he can get his stupid family to talk to each other.

* * *

When they get back, he leaves Bruce in the Batcave to 'just finish something up real quick' and heads upstairs. He swings by the kitchen to grab a quick snack and then starts down the halls to get ready for bed, and stops in his tracks when he finds the door to Jason's old room left open.

It's never left open.

He doesn't know who he's expecting to find, but he's a little shocked when he pokes his head in the door and finds Jason in there. The wheelchair's parked near the nightstand, but Jason's sitting at the head of his old bed, his bad leg stretched out in front of him.

He's holding what looks like an old scrapbook in his hands. Dick has to wonder how long he's been sitting in here.

"Jason?" Dick asks. "What'cha doing?"

"What're you doing?" Jason tosses back.

"We just got back, I was gonna go to bed," Dick says with a frown. "You probably should too, y'know. It's getting late, even for us."

Jason scoffs, slouching back against the well and mumbling, "You're bossy."

He had been momentarily distracted by a chip in the wood of the door, but at that he shoots a moderately confused look back at Jason. Jason's insults are usually wittier than that.

Which is when he spots the bottle on the nightstand and figures Jason's earlier remark about not liking the whiskey Bruce keeps in the house must've been mostly facetious.

"Hang on," Dick says, just a little amused. "Are you drunk?"

Jason offers a noncommittal shrug. "I dunno. Maybe?"

"Why?"

It's maybe not his most eloquent question, but it's the first one he thinks of. Jason's too paranoid to accept pain meds, but he's sitting here drinking at two in the morning. Dick's entitled to ask questions.

"It's what happens when you drink," Jason says, with a soft chuckle at his own joke. "Stupid."

A small smile tugs at the corner of Dick's mouth, even despite the stupidity of the comeback. Probably because of the stupidity of the comeback. It's kind of nice to see Jason more at ease, at least.

"Okay," Dick says easily, taking a small step further into the room. He indicates the scrapbook and asks, "What'd you find?"

"Nothing," Jason says, holding the scrapbook out towards Dick all the same.

He's right. The scrapbook's empty, after the first three pages.

He's sure some of that has to do with the fact that Jason was never a very big scrapbooker. Going by the first couple of photos, his mom probably started the book. There's a photo of Jason as a baby, one of him smiling with her and a dog. It looks like Jason added one or two photos after moving into the manor before abandoning it.

The last picture is one Dick took, actually. Bruce doing pushups with a toothy-grinned, twelve year old Jason sitting on his back.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Jason reaching for the bottle off the nightstand once more. Dick sighs and closes the scrapbook, setting it down with one hand and moving the bottle out of Jason's reach with the other.

"Alright," he says, indicating the wheelchair parked at the nightstand. "Time for bed little wing, let's go."

Jason actually lets Dick help him move into the chair, only once he's sitting in it he pushes Dick's hands away before he can actually push it towards the door.

"Why'd you have to tell me he cared, Dick?"

He asks like this was some form of betrayal. Dick feels his frown only deepen. Asks, "What are you talking about?"

"Bruce," Jason says, like it's supposed to be obvious what he means. "He kept my stuff, look."

Jason gestures pointedly around the room, almost like indicating a museum display. Which is almost what this room is, really.

He slumps backwards in the chair and mumbles, "It was easier if he never cared."

"What was easier?"

"Forget about it," Jason says dismissively. There's no point needling him about it, he's already moving on. "Hey, when's the doc coming back?"

"Two days," Dick says with a sigh.

"Two days," he echoes with a nod. He puts a hand on the doorframe to stop Dick from pushing the chair through it, sending a look over his shoulder to say, "Then I can leave, right?"

He probably shouldn't. Even if Leslie approves him starting on the physical therapy, it still won't mean he's back to full health. He's got a lot of healing left to do, and it's safer done here for a number of reasons. Not the least of which being his own stubbornness, probably the biggest threat to his health yet.

He also probably won't remember this conversation anyway.

"Yeah, then you can leave," Dick says. Then, cautiously, "If that's what you want."

Jason's hand drops away from the doorframe once more and he answers easily, "We talked about this already, bluebird. It doesn't matter what I want."

He's not honestly sure how to respond to that. He's still thinking of a reply when Jason twists suddenly, reaching back towards the doorway with an urgent, "Ooh wait, I forgot the bottle."

"You don't need it."

"See," he says, as if some great point has been proven.

"What?"

"Bossy."

Dick keeps from answering as he pushes Jason the rest of the way down the halls.

They make it to the guest room Jason's been staying in, and Dick hauls Jason up out of the chair and helps him get to bed. Jason just sort of flops onto the mattress, before wincing ever so slightly as the movement, presumably, jostles his leg a bit.

Dick waits until Jason's settled to start for the door again, with a mumbled, "Night, Jason."

Jason lifts his head up and answers, loftily if a little slurred, "Was I sleeping while others suffered?"

He knows enough to tell it's a quote from someplace. Not by any manner of recognizing it, just the way Jason says it, and the fact that it makes no sense otherwise. He can't hope to tell what Jason means in bringing it up now though.

"What?" he asks.

"Nevermind." Jason leaves it at that, dropping his head back to the pillow with a muffled, "G'night Dickhead."

He rolls his eyes as he flicks the lights off.

"Night little wing."


	33. You Say Tomato

As promised, Leslie comes back in two days to see how Jason's leg has been healing.

Miraculously enough, he's managed to go the full two weeks without putting any weight on it, just like he was supposed to. Dick can't say whether that's thanks to having more people around to keep an eye on him, or a very strong desire to get better so he can get away from all the people keeping an eye on him. Either way, Dick would call it a team effort.

"You're going to have one hell of a scar," Leslie notes with a sigh.

That's partly Dick's fault. He's got a feeling if an actual medical professional had done those sutures when Jason first tore his stupid leg open it might not scar so bad. But then Jason's the one that likes to pop stitches, anyway.

"One more for the collection," Jason says, raising a glass of water towards her in a mock toast.

"Some people just collect stamps," Leslie says, one part amused and two parts disapproving.

Dick agrees, tossing out less than helpfully, "Or coins."

"Why are you here again?"

"Sometimes," Leslie answers for him. "Members of this family aren't totally honest with me about how responsible they're being."

Jason nods, turning back to Dick and saying simply, "Snitches get stitches."

"What's there to snitch? You haven't been walking on it."

"Speaking of stitches," Leslie says. "How's your shoulder doing? Dick mentioned you've had some...difficulty letting that heal properly."

"It's fine," Jason says, a smidge defensively. He lets out a small cough that sounds suspiciously like 'Snitch,' shooting a pointed look across at Dick before turning attentively back to Leslie.

Leslie has a couple more questions while she inspects Jason's leg. Every now and then she'll toss a look over at Dick, as if asking him to confirm Jason's answer. He doesn't fault her for wanting to double check. Jason's ridiculously stubborn even to the point of disregarding his own health, and Dick knows she's right, this particular family doesn't always like to take sound medical advice. Especially not when that advice is to relax.

That said, deception isn't really Jason's go to. Things might be a lot easier, not only on him, if he were a little more inclined to lie, actually.

"Don't make me regret saying this," Leslie says eventually. "But it looks like you can start putting _some_ weight back on it."

"Yeah?" Jason says, sitting up with notable excitement.

He almost looks about ready to bolt then and there. Dick cringes inwardly in anticipation of the conversation he knows is coming about Jason leaving.

"Not your full body weight, and not for long periods of time," Leslie says in warning. "If you try to push yourself now you can still make it worse."

"I'll be fine," he answers dismissively.

"Go easy on it or you won't be."

Something to be admired about Leslie is that when she gives her patients an instruction, there's seldom any room for argument. Even with patients like Jason Todd.

From there she's kind enough to explain some physical therapy exercises that can be done at the manor, she gives them some online resources to help with that too. She offers a parting instruction not to hesitate to call her with any questions or concerns, but before she can go, Jason says, "Sorry doc, one quick question."

"Sure, of course," she says, pausing at the doorway.

"Professional opinion," Jason says. "I'm good from here, right?"

"Good?"

"As in, I don't need to supervised like I'm a fucking infant, right?"

This he asks with a pointed look over at Dick, and Dick rolls his eyes but waits attentively for Leslie's answer nonetheless.

He doesn't think they can really keep Jason here much longer anyway. He's not a prisoner and he's not a kid, if him being on his own isn't a significant risk to his health, he's going to have to be able to leave. Only what Jason thinks he can do on his own doesn't necessarily line up with what reality says he can do on his own.

"I suppose you would be alright on your own," Leslie says skeptically. "Although you'd be far more likely to avoid reinjuring yourself with assistance from others. And the physical therapy isn't something you should do without supervision, no."

"Thanks doc," Jason says, his expression difficult to read.

She's not gone for more than two minutes before Jason's pushing himself up onto the crutches she left behind for him. It's not like he has a lot of belongings at the manor to pack at all, but he sets to packing anyway. Tosses his jacket onto the foot of the bed, and collects a couple of books off the nightstand.

"What are you doing?"

"You heard her, I can leave," Jason says easily. "Hey, toss me that sweatshirt, will you?"

Dick picks up the sweatshirt in question just on instinct, then sets it back down with a frown. Glances over at Jason again and says, "Slow down, she also said you couldn't work on the physical therapy by yourself. What's your plan there?"

"She said shouldn't, not couldn't," he answers, undeterred.

"So you're leaving? Just like that?"

"I haven't exactly been subtle about not wanting to be here, Dickie. Is there a problem?"

"You still have metal pins holding your bone together, yeah, I'd say there's a problem."

Jason huffs. Annoyed but not exactly surprised. He's probably been anticipating this conversation just as much as Dick.

It's not like he can really make Jason stay. Jason's his own person, after all. And they all already know he's going to do what he wants, no matter the consequences to his own wellbeing. Trying to stop him once he's already made his mind up may just be burning the bridge.

But how can they in good conscience just watch him leave when he hasn't properly healed yet? When it's damn likely that, even if Jason doesn't immediately go looking for trouble, trouble may still find him.

Dick sighs and adds, "You heard Leslie tell you to be careful. That it's better _for you_ to be around other people until it heals."

"It's real cute of you to worry 'bout me," Jason says, nice and patronizing. "But I think I'll muddle through on my own, thanks."

"Uhuh," Dick says skeptically. "Sure."

Jason doesn't grace the disbelief with a response. He just moves on to checking that everything's accounted for that's supposed to be buried in his jacket pockets.

Something must turn up missing, because with a frown he moves to the other side of the bed. Sticks a hand under the pillow and digs around for a second until he comes up with a knife.

As he's putting it away in some hidden pocket or other, Dick says, half a question and half a statement, "You already know where you're going?"

He's already known where he was going since day one more than likely.

"Yep," Jason says with disinterest.

"Safehouse?"

"Yup."

"It's not like your last one, is it?" Dick challenges. From the look Jason gives him, it probably is. That, or his lack of support at the notion of vanishing with surgical pins still holding your leg together to go live on your own in a dingy safehouse is starting to get on Jason's nerves. He plods on nonetheless, "The lights work at this one, right? You have more food stashed than just protein bars?"

Granted, the brownstone was never said to be the best of Jason's safehouses in Gotham. Just the closest. They were in a bit of a time crunch.

Dick still doesn't see why Jason's so set on subjecting himself to anything remotely like that place to heal, especially by himself. Not when there are people with stocked kitchens and better security, people who care about him and want to be there for him.

"Sure, but what's even better than that is what this place doesn't have," Jason says pointedly.

It takes Dick a second to realize he's being insulted.

"What," he says, arching an eyebrow. "The people who care about you?"

Jason shrugs. "You say tomato, I say overbearing control freaks."

"If overbearing means trying to protect you, then sure yeah, I guess we're overbearing."

"Fuck off, Grayson," Jason says vehemently. "Ain't nothing for you to protect me from, I can handle myself. And besides, Bruce told me you guys closed the stupid case anyway."

"He did?"

Not that it's particularly relevant to this conversation, just that the last Dick talked to him, Bruce was pretty unwilling to talk to Jason. He hadn't heard of anything changing his mind up till now.

"Mhm," Jason says with a nod. Unwilling to dwell on that, he plows on, "The little threat you were so worried about last time I tried to leave is out of the picture. I can move around on my own. So what's your fucking problem?"

It's easy to say the threat is out of the picture, sure, but it's not like Kodro or even the Joker are the only enemies to the Red Hood. He's good at pissing people off, it's one of his many talents. Anyway, the people potentially gunning to the Red Hood aren't what Dick's worried about.

He's not entirely sure what he is worried about.

He wants to say it's that Jason's going to get himself hurt again. He's certainly seen enough evidence that Jason's capable of that certain degree of stubbornness that leads to ignoring limitations or pain to the point of making it worse, and if he decides he's not healing quick enough he's liable to get impatient and make it that much worse.

But the past two weeks have proven, at the very least, that Jason's also capable of listening to sound medical advice. When he decides he wants to.

So maybe that's not Dick's problem after all.

Maybe he's just worried that if Jason leaves now he'll have no real reason to come back. It'll be the last Dick sees of him until the next time he's trying to stop the stranger in the red helmet from killing a man in the streets of Gotham.

"Nothing, I guess."

"Good."

"Great," Dick snaps back. And the silence plods on another minute or two before he huffs and says without thinking, "Why are you in such a hurry to leave anyway? It's because of Bruce?"

"It's not because of Bruce," Jason says impatiently. Then, as if it's the simplest thing in the world, "I got a job to do. I can't do it here, that's all there is to it."

He can't do it with a busted leg either. But then, maybe here doesn't solely refer to being at the manor.

Dick scrubs a hand over his face. "Nothing that's happened this past month means shit to you, does it?"

"What do you want from me?" Jason snaps impatiently.

"I want you not to take off and vanish the first chance you get, Jay," Dick says, just as irritably. He runs a hand through his hair and adds, marginally softer, "I wanna be your brother again."

Jason takes in a deep breath, looks away for an instant. Much to Dick's surprise, some of the anger's actually dissipated when he looks back.

"You _are_ my brother, birdbrain," Jason says earnestly.

And although there's not a hint of irony in his expression, Dick waits for him to say that it doesn't mean anything. Like he heard him tell Bruce. Family doesn't have the same meaning to Jason as it does to Dick, and that's not an error on either of their parts, it's just a difference of experience.

That clarification never comes.

"Oh," Dick says dumbly. With a relieved chuckle he adds, "Good."

Jason rolls his eyes.

Then, never one to tiptoe around any form of the truth, or let a tender moment linger very long, he scoffs. Says, "But I don't need your help, alright, Dickhead? And I am leaving, whether you like it or not."

"I know."

Truth be told, Jason probably never needed his help. Certainly not beyond the initial dragging from the rubble.

The stubborn bastard could have, more than likely, found a way to deal with the rest on his own. Jason stitches wounds shut with dental floss and collects scars like some people collect coins. He fights with every fiber of his being. And maybe he didn't ask to come back from the grave, but he is stubbornly, determinedly alive.

Jason never _needs_ anyone's help. If Dick had simply left him on that bloodstained couch in that abandoned brownstone, Jason would've found a way to carry on.

But why in hell would anyone choose that?

"Then why d'you keep looking at me like that?" Jason challenges, a tad defensively.

"I just," Dick says carefully. "Don't get why you think you have to need help to accept it."

Jason groans in annoyance. It was a little too optimistic of him, if he thought the conversation was ending there. After a second he shakes his head and says, "Whether you need it or not, there are always some implied conditions for accepting someone's help."

"Conditions?" Dick echoes in confusion. "I don't get it."

"Of course you don't."

It sounds like an insult but it doesn't come across as one. In fact, it almost seems adjacent to approving.

But then, despite not having any strong inclinations towards lies, what Jason seems and what he actually is don't always line up. He could be thinking anything.

And Dick's always thought that the straightforwardness wasn't from any moral issue with the subject of lying. Just that Jason's never found a very compelling reason to be anything other than what he is. He starts to wonder if there's a little more nuance to that than he previously thought with Jason's next answer.

"I can't be what you or Bruce want me to be," Jason says, blatantly firm and discreetly resigned. "And I can't need you if I'm gonna be what I have to be."

There's a riddle if Dick ever heard one.

"What do you have to--"

He cuts himself at a sound in the hall, and a half second later there's a light knock on the open door. The both of them turn towards it in unison, finding Tim hovering in the doorway.

Just back from school, if the backpack dangling lopsidedly off one of his shoulders is any indication.

"Hey Dick," Tim says before turning towards Jason. He greets him with a nod and a disinterested, "Todd."

"Replacement," Jason says in much the same tone.

"How was school?" Dick promps.

Tim nods again, like he's just remembered something this time. He swings his bag around to the front and rifles through it a second before producing a slightly crumpled sheet of paper. Scans it over a second to make sure he's got the right one, then holds it out towards Jason with muted pride.

Jason frowns skeptically but accepts the offering nonetheless.

"This your essay?"

Dick leans forward interestedly, trying to see if there's a grade or anything written at the top of the page. He can't quite make one out, although the note scribbled in red ink at the top definitely means it's been graded.

"Just got it back," Tim says with a one-shouldered shrug. He scratches an itch at the back of his neck and adds apathetically, "Alfred said I had to thank you for your help with it, so...thanks, I guess."

At that, Jason glances back up at him. There's a mischievous hint of a smile when he raises an eyebrow and says, "Didn't catch that. What?"

"It's kinda sad, they say hearing's the first thing to go," Tim quips. Jason just blinks at him, putting a hand to his ear. With blatant annoyance, Tim says, "Thanks."

"One more time?"

"I'm not saying it again."

Jason chuckles anyway and holds the paper out towards Dick with a declaration of, "It can be taught to read after all."

Dick elbows him disapprovingly as he accepts the paper to look it over.

"I already knew how to read," Tim snaps defensively.

"Nah," comes Jason's less than impressed reply. "You knew how to recognize letters strung together to make words and sentences."

"That's what reading is!"

Jason tuts in disagreement. He probably gets a little too much enjoyment out of screwing with Tim, actually. He says in an insufferable Yoda impression, "Much to learn, you have, grasshopper."

With an overdramatic groan, Tim says, "You are so annoying."

It actually looks like Jason takes that as a compliment, the way his grin only solidifies with the insult.

Maybe Jason doesn't take to lying to other people very often, but Dick will say this much. He's deceiving himself if he thinks right here isn't where he's meant to be.

"Good job, Tim," Dick says, offering him his essay back and ruffling his hair with his free hand.

Tim swats him away with a, "Jason's the one who helped me, go harass him."

"Sure," Dick says, reaching a hand out to muss up Jason's hair too.

Much in the same way Tim had, maybe a little more aggressively, Jason smacks his hand away. "Get the hell off'a me, you muppet."


	34. Let Go

Dick's more or less accepted that Jason plans on taking off. That Jason would rather be alone in some shitty safehouse than in company in these walls. Don't get him wrong, he's not happy about it, but he's accepted it.

In large part, because he's able to talk Jason into giving him the address of the safehouse--admittedly, under threat of just finding it on his own, or using Tim to find it on his own anyway, but Jason does give him the address and that's the important bit. He also agrees to let Dick swing by every now and then to check on him.

All things Dick's willing to work with. Because as much as he thinks Jason's better off here, he also knows there's no way he tries to make Jason stay and gets away with it.

He runs into Bruce in the kitchen and already knows he's got a different view of things.

He's sitting at the island with his stressed-out-dad hoodie on, staring into a mug of coffee like it'll provide the answers he needs. Unfortunately, coffee can't talk.

"You talk to Jay?" Dick prompts, sliding into the stool next to him. Bruce arches an eyebrow at him, and Dick sighs and says, "Where is he?"

"Wreaking havoc somewhere, I'm sure," Bruce says, finally reaching for the mug in front of him and taking a steady sip. If the way he shakes his head and gets up to pour it out in the sink is any indication, it's long gone cold.

"Please tell me that's subtle for 'He left,' and not 'He's pissed I told him not to.'"

"The bones in his leg are being held together by metal pins," Bruce tells him flatly.

Dick scrubs his hands down over his face, resisting the urge to get angry. It's a little easier to do when he totally agrees that Jason shouldn't leave. It's a little harder to do when he knows it's not their decision to make.

"Anyone ever tell you you're kind of a control freak?"

"Jason did, actually."

"Among other things, I'm guessing."

Bruce puffs out a defeated sigh as he refills the mug at the coffee pot. He says, "I don't know what to do with him."

"He just needs some space, B."

"Space to get himself killed again? Or to kill someone else again? Maybe both," Bruce challenges. Dick blinks. Shaking his head, Bruce adds more gently, "I'm sorry, that was..."

"No, I get it," Dick says. "He doesn't make worrying about him easy, does he?"

Bruce stares at the top of his mug again, and Dick figures he'll have to take that for an answer.

He doesn't know how the conversation went, exactly. He could guess it didn't go well even if he wasn't talking to Bruce already. It's a conversation between Bruce and Jason, those never go well.

And Jason probably wouldn't have relented enough to give Bruce the address of his safehouse. Hell, if he told Bruce he was even leaving, it had to have been because Bruce caught him on the way out. Emotional farewells aren't exactly his style, especially not when booking it from a manor he didn't even want to be in to begin with.

Dick knows Bruce is trying to do better even if Jason doesn't. He knows Bruce means well.

Hell, he knows Bruce is probably right. The best chance Jason has at healing that leg properly, avoiding any complications or infection or run ins with unknown enemies until Leslie takes the pins out and he can fight again, is staying here at the manor. Letting them watch out for him.

That isn't all he knows.

"B, you're trying to do right by him, and I'm glad. I know you want him to feel like he can trust you again," Dick says. He knows it's tough to accept, because he's had his own difficulty, but he adds, "But if you try to push this right now that is never, ever going to happen."

"Say he leaves and gets hurt again. Messes up his PT or gets an infection or something," Bruce says, and those are, to be fair, pretty damn likely possibilities. Especially if this place he plans on going to is anything like the one safehouse Dick's already seen. "What're the odds he trusts us enough to ask for help again?"

The easy answer is that they're not good. They won't be good for a long time, Jason doesn't ask for help.

The truer answer is, "A lot better, if he leaves on his terms and not ours."

Easy enough for Dick to say, he's the one who's at least on speaking terms with Jason.

Bruce starts to answer that, it's difficult to say whether it's to agree or to argue further. Whatever it is, Dick doesn't hear it. Both of their phones chirp out a text alert in unison.

"It's Tim," Dick says, glancing at the screen.

A message to the group chat, requesting backup in the Batcave. The little pair of finger emojis pointing at one another, with a frowning face beside them, probably indicate that it's not urgent.

It's probably Jason.

Bruce must be thinking the same thing, because he sits back down at the counter and says, "You go. I gotta figure this out before I try to talk to him again."

Dick doesn't argue.

He sends a quick 'omw' back to Tim, and then makes his way down to the Batcave. At the very least, he's got to admit he's curious as to what Jason's getting up to now, that Tim was compelled to drag them into it.

He probably shouldn't be surprised when he makes his way down there.

Jason's clearly pissed, but Dick could've predicted that. He's crouched on the ground in the garage segment of the place, murmuring under his breath. Not quite sentences, mostly varying strings of swear words with a real word or two thrown in every now and then. He's largely unaware of or unconcerned with Tim's presence, and with Dick's arrival.

Tim's perched on top of a tool bench not far off, watching with curiosity and some very mild concern.

Dick takes one look at Jason, then decides to find a place at Tim's side instead. He's barely made his way over when Tim asks, despite having been down here longer, "What's he _doing?"_

"Well," Dick says thoughtfully, folding his arms as he looks back out at Jason. He nods appraisingly and says, "Looks like he's stealing B-man's tires."

"Didn't he pull that already before?"

"Yup," Dick says easily.

Tim shrugs.

The Batmobile, for her part, is propped up on the jacks pretty well. Dick sort of has to wonder whether or not Tim helped him do it. He doesn't doubt Jason's ability, it just seems like it might be a difficult task at the time being, with his limited range of movement. An Jason's definitely had easier times removing tires, that's for certain.

Right now he's kneeling awkwardly on the one knee, his bad leg jutting out to the side in a straight line, with a balance that looks both precarious and uncomfortable.

He wobbles ever so slightly, bracing one hand against the side of the car to keep from falling. Tim asks, "Should we intervene?"

Dick sighs.

"Hey, Jay," he calls. By all appearances, Jason doesn't even hear him. "You know that if you hurt yourself you're stuck here longer, right?"

"Worth it," Jason says with conviction.

He doubts that highly.

But he and Tim just watch Jason in silence for another few minutes, and Jason doesn't show any real signs of discouragement. Then, he's already begun, even if he were to rethink whether it's worth it he won't stop now. Jason sees things through no matter what, even petty, childish acts of resentment.

"What's the thought process here?" Tim asks, pulling one knee up to his chest. In a mock Jason impersonation, he adds, "'If I can't leave, neither can he.' Like, Bruce has other cars. Jason knows Bruce has other cars, right?"

"I can hear you, pipsqueak," Jason growls, not so much as looking back at them.

Dick doesn't fully manage to stifle the chuckle.

It's probably not funny. It is, also, just a little funny.

At Dick's laugh, Jason sends a glare over his shoulder and adds firmly, "Don't think I'm above beating you with a tire iron."

He puts his palms out in mock surrender and Jason rolls his eyes before returning to his task. Despite knowing the answer already anyway, Dick says, "Wanna tell me what happened?"

"Fuck off," Jason says simply. He swears again. At what Dick guesses to be a pain in his leg, because he drops backwards to actually sit on the ground. Slaps the tire iron onto the ground at his side with a harsh _clang_ and declares, to no one in particular, "He can't keep me here forever."

"He didn't say forever," Tim says with a tired sigh. "He said 'till Leslie takes the pins out."

"Yeah, this time."

He picks one of the loose bolts up off the ground and hurls it across the ground, like an angry kid chucking rocks.

Dick watches it bounce and skid it's way across the stone of the floor, then frowns back at Jason. He attempts, "Bruce is just trying to look out for you."

Misguided an attempt as it may be.

"I don't need him to." The next bolt he throws packs a little more force behind it. He pushes himself back up onto one knee and returns to prying the tires off the Batmobile with a renewed determination, explaining, "And he doesn't give two shits about me. He just wants me close by in case I go feral or something. Can't have the Red Hood wreaking havoc on _his_ precious city."

"Have you considered," Tim says. "Not wreaking havoc on the city?"

"Have you considered not being a little pissbaby?"

This, punctuated by the throw of a final bolt. Although this one isn't aimed at the ground, and in fact it comes dangerously close to colliding with Tim's little face.

Instead it ricochets off the back of the tool bench and then clatters to the floor at Dick's feet.

"I really don't think this is about the Red Hood, Jay," Dick says.

"Everything's about the Red Hood," Jason huffs, placing a hand at either side of the tire and rotating it.

"To you or to him?"

Jason doesn't bother answering for a long minute.

Then, like a dog with a bone, he drops the newly liberated Batmobile tire to the ground and says, "Can you think of a better reason for him to keep me here? Something a little more believable than that compassion bullshit?"

"It's not bullshit," Tim says, reasonably frustrated.

"He only wants me here so, when I break the rules again, he can ship me off to Blackgate nice and quiet. Or hell, maybe even Arkham. Wouldn't that be a trip?"

"Bruce doesn't wanna lock you up."

"You sound paranoid, little wing."

"I'm a fucking prisoner in my childhood home, I think I'm entitled."

He lifts the tire up onto its side and rolls it away from him with an unnecessary shove. There's an almost comical clammering noise as it collides with something a little ways off, almost definitely knocking whatever it is to the ground. Dick doesn't bother looking, but Jason seems suspiciously satisfied.

Frankly, Dick's trying to figure whether he can be relieved to hear Jason using the word home again at all. It's past tense, sure, but it's something. Right?

He's still trying to figure it out when a weary voice answers, "You're not a prisoner, Jason."

He could blame the tire crash on not hearing Bruce come down, but it's probably got more to do with the fact that it's Bruce.

Jason tenses, although he doesn't seem as shocked to see him. He asks skeptically, "Oh? So I can leave?"

"You're injured." It's not a direct answer, but it might as well be. "You can't fight, you can't even walk. I just want to keep you safe."

"Yeah," Jason scoffs. "You did a real bang up job of that last time."

"Guys--" Dick starts.

"Stay outta this, birdbrain."

"You don't even know what he was gonna say," Tim says with an indignant huff.

"Maybe when you're tall enough to get on the rides at the amusement park I'll want your input, Timmers, but right now, zip it."

"That's--"

"Zip."

Bruce clears his throat pointedly, effectively silencing whatever argument any of the three of them had been about to fire back. He sends a look back at Tim and Dick and asks patiently, "Can I get a minute with Jason?"

Tim starts to get up.

Dick looks down at Jason in a split second's hesitation.

He knows with certainty Bruce won't hurt him, obviously. He doubts Jason's even thinking that.

Only, when he's sitting on the floor like that, with a busted leg sticking out in front of him and a distinct level of discomfort behind all that rage, walking away doesn't feel right either. Which is how he finds himself settling deliberately back against the tool bench behind him.

Tim's gaze flickers over to him a second before he sits back down.

"Alright," Bruce says with an accepting, if resigned, nod.

He looks back to Jason, who has actually moved on to working on the third tire. Even with Bruce standing right there watching him. And with a blatantly forced air of disinterest, Jason says, "You got something you wanna say to me, say it."

"I'm sorry--"

"Aww, goody for you. We done now?"

"Will you let me finish?" There's a faint clink as another bolt hits the ground, but otherwise Jason's quiet. Bruce says, "I keep letting you down, Jay, I know that. And I don't want you to feel like a prisoner here, or anywhere, so if you really don't want to be here I won't stop you from leaving."

At that, Jason stills. Turns to look up at Bruce.

From where he's sitting Dick can't get a good read on Jason's expression, but he can picture the blunt mistrust and skepticism well enough. He's been on the receiving end of that look once or twice.

His shoulders slump and he groans dramatically when Bruce continues, "But I really think that here is the best place for you to be while you're healing."

Jason blows a raspberry.

"That's mature," Tim mutters with a roll of his eyes.

"No comment," Dick says.

"I can't make you forgive me, Jason," Bruce says. "But don't let your issues with me stop you from getting the help you need."

"Great pitch," Jason says dryly. "Only I don't _need_ your help. Or anyone else's for that matter, so you can just leave me alone at any time."

"Jaylad--"

Jason's on his feet quicker than Dick actually thought possible for him right now. He teeters ever so slightly. Bruce looks like he wants to put a hand out to stabilize him, but he doesn't act on it. That's probably for the better.

"You don't get to call me that anymore," Jason hisses through gritted teeth.

"Jason," Bruce amends cautiously.

Not on inch of the tension drops out of Jason's shoulders, but he's quiet a second. Maybe inviting Bruce to finish the thought, maybe challenging him to just try it.

With the smallest shake of his head, Bruce says, "Don't you think if I wanted you locked up I'd have done it by now?"

"Nice," Jason says with an icy nod.

"My point is," Bruce says steadily. "If you stay because you need a safe place to heal, that's all it'll be. You can leave whenever you want."

Jason shifts. Says, like testing the waters, "I want to leave now, Bruce."

Bruce just nods. "Okay."

The span of two seconds during which Jason and Bruce just stand there feels a lot longer. It's like he's expecting some sort of trap.

But he must realize Bruce isn't playing some elaborate prank on him, because he mirrors the nods and moves as if to leave. As casually as if he were walking away from a coworker after a hallway chat.

Only he left his crutches propped up against the tool bench over by Tim and Dick, and he really can't walk yet. A fact he only seems to completely remember when he's already falling.

Bruce catches him because of course he does. Muttering something like, "Careful."

Jason looks like he would've rather hit the ground. He growls in frustration, jerking his arm out from Bruce's grip and catching the hood of the Batmobile for balance instead.

"Would you just stop it," he snaps, and Dick's got no clue what he's referring to. It can't be Bruce catching him.

"Stop what?" Bruce asks.

Not understanding is a foreign look on his face, really.

"This," Jason says, like it's supposed to be obvious. "Acting like you give a shit. Stop it."

"I do give a shit," Bruce says firmly.

Jason growls in frustration, turning as if to pace a step away. Still using the hood of the car for balance, he doesn't get much further than that, then he turns back to Bruce once more. The image of an animal pacing its cage comes to mind.

He's halfway to wondering why Jason's so pissed at the idea Bruce might actually care when his gaze flickers involuntarily towards the mark on his neck.

And Dick doubts that's all of it. It's probably not even the half of it. There were issues before, or else Jason would've come back to them sooner. He would've come home.

Still, Jason's never had a great track record with things like trust or family.

Maybe the other side of Bruce, the side that's endearingly awful at making pancakes but tries anyway, the side that remembers what you're working on in school and keeps a library of first editions mostly because he knows Jason likes them, maybe that doesn't help. Maybe Jason would be more okay with the rift between him and Bruce if he hadn't trusted him so damn much, hadn't wanted to trust him in the first place.

Maybe he doesn't want Bruce to care. Everything he did is easier if he never gave a crap to begin with.

"Maybe you do, maybe you don't. But Bruce," Jason says, tone unnaturally level. "You are never gonna care about any of us like you care about him, and I won't be around that."

"Him?" Dick asks.

He doesn't mean to say it out loud. Jason doesn't look at him to reply. He keeps his gaze fixed on Bruce, his voice an unwavering accusation when he explains flatly, "The Joker."

"That isn't--" Tim starts.

"You're on thin fucking ice, Drake, I mean it."

"What do you mean, Jason?" Bruce says with a false calm.

"Look me in the eyes and tell me that if I'd taken the shot, you'd still be okay with me leaving," Jason says with a tone like steel. "Or that you'd still really want me to stay."

"I would."

Jason laughs hollowly. Shakes his head. Says, "We had the same choice, man."

Dick doesn't have to ask about that one. Although he wishes for more than one reason that he'd been in the room when Bruce made his choice, a whole year ago.

He can picture it well enough. The choice. The gun in the hand, and the Joker, and the fear.

He doesn't know for sure what he would've done in either of their places and he hopes he never does.

"That was different," Bruce starts, instinctively on the defense.

"We had the same choice," Jason repeats with a tad more aggression. Half a step forward. He indicates himself with a point of his index finger and says, "And _I_ chose you guys. _I_ chose family. _You_ \--" he jabs the pointing finger into Bruce's chest, "--You chose him."

Bruce opens his mouth to say something, from the looks of it something in his defense. For whatever reason he reconsiders.

Maybe he knows Jason's right. Maybe, right or not, he knows the one of them that cut the other's throat open with a deadly weapon can't actually argue with the one that was going to sacrifice himself for them.

It doesn't really matter. He reconsiders, and lands on a simple, "I'm sorry," instead.

Except there's nothing simple about it.

"Stop saying that!" Jason explodes, shoving Bruce away from him with a flat hand.

Bruce doesn't budge more than a half step, and Jason brings the second hand up too for a second shove. This time he manages to throw Bruce off balance enough that he falls back a few steps. In the process, Jason throws himself off balance too, to the point where he'd have fallen again if not for the Batmobile. Dick unfolds his arms, getting ready to step in if they make him.

Jason looks down at the ground. With an aggravated huff, he stoops to retrieve the tire iron from where he dropped it on the floor.

Tim hops off the tool bench and rocks forward, but Dick blocks him for the moment with a hand in front of his chest.

It's not Bruce that Jason tries to hit with the tire iron. He brings it back and swings, aimed haphazardly at the Batmobile dashboard window. On any other car, the glass would shatter. On this one it doesn't even crack.

"Jason--" Dick and Bruce try in unison.

He doesn't acknowledge them beyond a shout and another swing. An audible crack finds its way into the glass where he strikes it, growing larger with the next swing, and the next.

The progress is slow going. Both on account of the tough nature of the car he's trying to fight, and the fact he can't pack a lot of force into a hit without also sacrificing his already precarious balance. Beating the shit out of the Batmobile really is a two-legged activity.

Dick keeps the hand in front of Tim until the windowpane shatters inwards.

With that, Jason's aim falters. He hits the roof twice, then the hood. The door. The roof again.

"Jason," Dick says crisply, wondering or hoping he can snap him out of it. Before he really falls and hurts himself, like he seems to be threatening to do. "Stop."

He only stops long enough to readjust his grip on the tire iron. He brings it down on the hood of the car with an even harsher force, as if to prove he doesn't plan on listening to them today, and repeats brokenly, "We had the same fucking choice! We had the same..."

"Stop now," Bruce orders firmly.

But Dick doubts he cares about the dent forming in the hood of the tireless Batmobile half as much as he does the way Jason sways with exhaustion the next time he has to catch his balance.

Jason yells wordlessly. Aims another blow to the door.

He comes up short when Bruce catches Jason's wrist in his hand.

Jason freezes. His chest heaves, his knuckles are white. Still he makes no move to either release his grip or tear free from Bruce's.

Dick doesn't know how long they're locked there before Jason finally asks, almost too soft for him to hear from his place at the tool bench, "Why did you keep my stuff, Bruce?"

Bruce blinks. "What?"

"Why'd you keep my stuff," Jason echoes, just as quiet, if a little more confident.

There's a beat of silence. Whether Bruce is contemplating an answer or a reason for the question, Dick can't say. But after a moment he says honestly, "I didn't wanna let you go."

He gives a half a nod. "Then why did you?"

"Jason, I didn't. I won't."

The next thing they hear is the tire iron clattering harshly against the stone floor as Jason releases his grip on it. The sound rattles off the cave walls loud enough to awake some of the actual bats that live here, they shriek briefly before resettling into their quiet.

After a very long minute, Jason nods again and says with newfound determination, "I have to go."

He sends a look over at Dick and Tim and raises an expectant eyebrow. Dick's still waiting for Jason to say something when Tim sighs and picks the crutches up and makes his way over to the car.

"Thanks, half-pint," Jason says. He doesn't waste much time in propping his weight up on the crutches. Dick doubts this is what Leslie had in mind when she told him he could start being a little more active. Jason starts to walk off, pauses for a second and says as an afterthought, "Sorry 'bout the car."

"I have more," Bruce says dismissively.

"I know," Jason says, clapping a patronizing hand on Bruce's shoulder as he shuffled past him. Or maybe it's just a hand on his shoulder. He looks back and adds, "Hey, Dickhead, you giving me a ride or are you gonna make me call a taxi?"

"Long as you promise not to bleed all over my car again," Dick says, pushing away from the tool bench to catch up with him.

"You stole that car, that wasn't yours."

"What?" Tim asks, perking up.

"Nothing, he doesn't remember properly, he was delirious."

"Nope, pretty sure you stole a car."

"I gave it back."

"Well that just makes you a crappy thief."


	35. Back to Normal

The one thing Dick never seems to get used to, even after a lifetime in vigilante work, is how things have a way of just becoming normal.

He doesn't remember when, exactly, Jason being alive solidified itself as normal in his mind. In fact, he only realizes it when he leaves the manor himself and heads back to his apartment.

After staying with Bruce and Tim and Alfred for so long, it sort of feels weird flicking the lights on at his apartment. And after spending so long being responsible for a stubborn, nineteen year old infant with a penchant for making things worse, it's even weirder not to have Jason to check on.

Dick won't go so far as to say he misses having Jason around.

For one thing, as much as he loves the guy, dude's a terrible house guest. He's an even worse patient. It's annoying as hell having to fix stitches or argue the merits of taking painkillers or insist that rest is necessary to heal, all while getting cussed out for giving a shit. Dick's glad to have his place to himself again.

For another, it's not like Jason's getting rid of him that easy.

Dick's made himself as much of a nuisance as possible with Jason's address. He swings by at least once a week with groceries, which is more grocery shopping than he does for himself so that's saying something. And he stops by every other day to help Jason with his PT. Much to Jason's loudly voiced chagrin.

All things considered, Dick's still seeing plenty of Jason. But whether that's going to change once Jason's off the bench remains to be seen.

"How is he doing?" Alfred prompts over tea and cucumber sandwiches one morning.

The rain comes down audibly outside, not unlike the last time Dick talked with Alfred under the disguise of having tea. Things, at least, seem a bit clearer now than they did then. Or maybe the Red Hood has just become the new normal.

"One more week and Leslie can take the pins out," Dick says with an easy shrug.

"That's good," Alfred says. "But how is he doing?"

"Well, he's Jason," and that should be answer enough.

But Alfred arches a judgmental eyebrow, with the effectiveness that only Alfred's judgmental eyebrow can ever quite seem to manage. 

Dick sighs.

He sets his mug down on the island counter in front of him. It's still too hot to drink from anyway. He says, "I think he's getting kinda tired of waiting for Leslie to OK him getting back on the horse."

"Wouldn't you be?"

"My horse doesn't shoot people," Dick grumbles into the lip of his mug.

Alfred nods, but somehow it doesn't look like he's agreeing. Which makes sense when he asks, not wholly disapproving but not exactly approving either, "Did he say something to you to indicate that's what he's planning?"

They've discussed it at length, actually. Although technically only in hypotheticals. It's more the morality of it they've been going in circles debating than anything specific.

But then, maybe that's not the real problem anyway.

It's the idea that once Jason's better, this whole thing gets put behind them. He packs it all up and tosses it out a window so he can go back to being the Red Hood without having to worry what they think of him. Jason goes back his old normal instead of letting something else become normal. Or something like that.

Dick's big enough to admit that, yeah, he's worried about losing his little brother again.

He knows most of it was unfortunate circumstances, but Jason didn't come home until he needed help. Not something Dick holds against him, especially considering he's still too stubborn to admit he even needed the help. Still, it raises the question of what happens after Jason doesn't need them anymore.

When he can stand on his own, both literally and figuratively, what reason would he have for sticking around?

"I dunno," Dick answers finally, shaking his head. "Is it weird if I miss him?"

Because Jason's not gone anymore. At least for right now he's just a phone call or a taxi drive away. For whatever reason, that doesn't seem to change anything.

"I know the feeling," Alfred says easily.

Dick's shoulders slump.

As far as he knows, he's the only one privy to Jason's current location.

That said, Alfred seems to be handling this far better than the rest of them. That, too, is normal. How he became so well adjusted, or how he manages to stay that way with the rest of them to put up with, Dick won't bother trying to figure out. He is, however, eternally grateful to have an Alfred around.

Jason could probably use an Alfred around.

Resting his chin in his hands, Dick asks, "What do you do about it?"

"There's nothing that can be done, I'm afraid," Alfred says, with the wisdom of someone who's already thought this all the way through. "Except to be here when he's ready."

It's good advice, it's just not what he was hoping to hear.

"How's Bruce?" he changes the subject.

"Master Bruce is...Well," Alfred says, parroting Dick's own words back at him. "He's Master Bruce."

"That bad, huh?" Dick jokes, lifting his head up again in favor of snagging a sandwich off of the plate in front of them. "Think they'll ever go back to normal?"

Alfred hums.

He doesn't bother getting into the semantics of how normal can mean a lot of different things. They both know what Dick's asking, and that's not it. Things aren't ever going to be what they used to be, least of all between Jason and Bruce. And maybe Jason's right, maybe they shouldn't.

But that doesn't mean they have to stay like this.

"Some wounds take more time to heal than others," is the answer he gets. And ain't that the truth.

* * *

Without the surgical pins or the crutches, Jason looks light as air.

Leslie somehow, magically, talked Jason into coming back to the manor for her to take the pins out. The medical room in the Batcave is more sanitary and better supplied than a safehouse, that's for sure. Bruce, conveniently, spent the day at a business meeting.

After that, it was just a few more weeks of PT. Eventually they saw the end of the antibiotics to fend off infection, and the crutches, and all of it.

They're standing on a street corner after walking down the road to snag some hotdogs from the sketchiest hotdog cart Dick's seen in his life, Jason's first real walk without the crutches, and Dick's hit with the idea that a gust of wind might just sweep him away.

Sure, he lost a little bit of weight over the time it took him to recover, but not as much as you'd think and that's not really where the thought comes from anyway.

Dick shakes his head.

It's not the wind that'll take Jason, anyway. It's life.

And Dick's not being dramatic. He knows he's not, because Jason's only been better for about five days when he does just what he was always going to do and takes off.

Which is fair, because a safehouse isn't exactly a house house, and Jason was never living there in the first place. But he doesn't even tell Dick where he's going. Or that he's going, for that matter. Dick just drops by to check in and finds the place empty.

He doesn't see the Red Hood pop up in any local news stories, and he spends a little while debating over whether that's a good sign or not.

* * *

Jason hasn't really been gone that long the next time Dick bumps into him.

It's the last place he's expecting to bump into Jason, which is sort of ironic since he only went there to see Jason.

Dick hasn't been back to the cemetery since he found out Jason wasn't actually dead anymore. Actually, he wasn't going all that often even before then. Just on the important dates, like the anniversary or Jason's birthday, or the odd day where he just happened to miss him more than usual. It's sort of stupid to visit now and he does know that.

He doesn't even really know why he's here.

He knows Jason's not actually in the coffin. He doesn't know what he hopes to find here. It just sort of felt like the thing to do.

It's a strange feeling, visiting a living man's grave.

But if it is stupid, no one gets to mock him for it, because when he gets there somebody else is already visiting. And man, if Dick thought being here again was strange, he can't imagine what Jason thinks of it.

Dick almost feels bad for intruding.

Jason's sitting on the ground between two of the gravestones--Dick can't read them from here, but he doesn't have to. Jason Todd was buried next to his mother. He can't hear from here either, but he'd guess it's probably her that Jason's talking to.

He walks a little closer before hesitating.

Too late. He's been caught.

"What'cha doing here?" Jason says without looking back. That faux sort of casual.

"Looking for you," Dick answers honestly.

Jason sends a look back over his shoulder, quirking an eyebrow to ask, "You actually visit this stupid rock?"

"It's not stupid," Dick says, bristling slightly. Then, "Besides, I could ask you the same question, couldn't I?"

"Touché."

Dick comes to a stop standing at Jason's shoulder. Jason turns to give him a look. Something that seems like it wants to be a glare, but it doesn't totally make it. Then he shrugs and looks back at the grass in front of him.

"Thanks for ghosting me, by the way," Dick comments, nudging Jason with his foot.

"It was easier," Jason says.

The silence stretches on a minute, and Dick puts his hands into his jacket pockets as he looks down at Jason's stupid rock.

The fact that the person belonging to the name on that slab is actually sitting right here doesn't do much to lessen the fact that his name is on the slab. Dick doesn't really know what he was expecting. He's just glad he didn't bring flowers, he would never hear the end of it.

He doesn't know how long they stay there quietly keeping Catherine and the empty casket company. But he's just beginning to wonder what, exactly, Jason's thinking when Jason mutters, "Was I sleeping while others suffered?"

"What is that?"

"Hm?" Jason says, like he wasn't expecting Dick to hear it.

"You asked me that the other night, back at the manor."

"I did?"

"You were drunk."

Jason nods and puffs out a light chuckle. He's quiet just long enough that Dick thinks the conversation's over, then he clears his throat and says, "Something from that book you leant me."

"Oh."

"Was I sleeping while others suffered? Am I sleeping now? Tomorrow when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of today?" Jason recites aloud, to the headstones or to Dick, it isn't clear. He takes in a deep breath and says, "At me, too, someone is looking. Of me, too, someone is saying, he is sleeping. He knows nothing, let him sleep on."

Dick frowns.

He gives Jason a second, waiting for him to explain it. When he doesn't, Dick sits down in the dirt next to him and asks, "What does it mean?"

"What do you want it to mean, bluebird?"

Dick doesn't have an answer, so instead he shrugs and says, "You wanna get into lit analysis, talk to Alfred."

"Yeah, never was your thing," Jason says, rolling his eyes. "How is he?"

"He misses you."

"Aw, ain't that sweet," Jason says, clicking his tongue. More, Dick thinks, as an instinct reaction than out of any real resentment. Bitter sarcasm being his default is something Dick can worry about another time, though. "Why are you here, Dick?"

The fact that it almost seems like an accusation probably has more to do with who's asking than the actual question. Because Jason doesn't actually say it like an accusation. He doesn't say it like anything, beyond a simple curiosity.

Dick can't answer with a hundred percent accuracy, seeing as he didn't know why he was coming when he made up his mind to do it.

But it feels like the truth when he shrugs and says, "I missed my brother."

Jason mimes gagging and Dick's too busy laughing to bother being offended.

"Okay, enough of that," Jason says dismissively, pushing himself back up and brushing some dirt off the leg of his jeans. He offers a hand out to help Dick up, one that Dick accepts, and as Jason hauls him to his feet he says, "Anyway, I'm glad I caught you."

"You are?"

"Yeah, I stumbled on this mob thing the other day. I can handle it on my own," he says. Then, "But I'm not a hundred percent yet, and it might go smoother with some backup."

Dick blinks.

"Jason are you asking for my help?"

"If you're gonna be a little bitch about it then no."

He's halfway to a grin when he stops himself. He glances over at Jason and says skeptically, "You know if you bring me in, we have to bring them in my way, right? No killing."

"Yeah, well I figure I can just kill them later. Y'know, when they inevitably get outta whatever cell you throw them in."

It's not a comforting agreement but it's an agreement nonetheless.

"Alright," Dick says. "I'm in."

"I got one condition of my own. Leave the bat out of it."

Dick can't say he's surprised that would be the one thing Jason asks. It's a little tough to tell, since he's still surprised at Jason even asking for his help in the first place.

But it's an olive branch, and he can't reject it now. Dick nods. "You got it. So what're we dealing with?"

Jason sends one final look back at the graves behind them.

It's tough to tell what he's thinking, but that's not new. But after a second he just nods, like saying goodbye. Or maybe like acceptance. Whatever it means, he nods and then turns back to face Dick.

He says, "There's a bar not far from here. I'll explain over drinks?"

"Sure. Just tell me this place isn't anything like Crunchy's."

Jason brushes past him without replying, starting for where he presumably parked his bike. The way he ignores the skeptical "Jason?" that follows the question tells Dick that this place is exactly like Crunchy's.

It's only after they're meeting up at the bar that Dick remembers Jason's not twenty one.

He sits across from Jason at a table and they talk details, and it occurs to him that this is going to be the first case he and Jason work as a team. Just the two of them.

Dick doesn't know what's going to be normal two months from now. If Jason's going to fix things with Bruce or if that's just going to stay broken. If he's ever going to be okay with the way Jason does things, or if Jason's ever going to change the way he does things. He definitely doesn't know how Jason managed to find so much trouble so damn quick.

There are two things he does know. One, Alfred's right, some wounds take more time to heal than others. But healing is something they're good at. And two?

It's going to be a very long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"At me, too, someone is looking. Of me, too, someone is saying, he is sleeping. He knows nothing. Let him sleep on._  
>  Samuel Beckett


End file.
